The rumors are flying. So are the birds, who are spreading rumors as fast as the people, from bush to branch to bay. So are the leaf buds, swollen almost to bursting, yet still tantalizingly sealed against the threat of cold.
Spring is coming.
Every cardinal chirp under my bedroom window carries back to last spring. I lay in bed, close my eyes and remember the delicious feeling of warmth. Late evening strolls through the woods after work. Tissue-thin leaves unfolding in shades of chartreuse and mauve. Flowers of every incarnation glowing in the sunset, humming with insect activities. And the music. High pitched buzzes and cascades of whistles. Ethereal songs from the thrush. I even miss the whiny scolds of catbirds.
I’m carefully forgetting the biters and suckers. Dream Spring hosts no mosquitoes.
The reality of sloppy snow and grey skies can’t dampen my hopes. I’m surviving off last year’s memories until the maples start blooming. Counting down, and scrolling through the archives, where the sun always shines: