The birds are back.
I never noticed that they left, and I don’t know when they came back, but one morning I woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains and heard them, song bird voices greeting the day in a cacophony from the hedge.
Last week the sun shone brightly and the air was almost warm and twice I walked up the hill behind the house, to the church and the cemetery that crowns it, to look down over the town and feel so far away.
Friday the wind blew hard and restless, tossing tree limbs against racing clouds, ripping my neighbor’s plastic porch roof off, piece by piece, tearing at his roof.
It blew in the cold again, and snow fell on Saturday as I drove to work.
And Sunday the snow melted away and the birds were singing when I walked to work this morning, sun rising from behind scattering clouds. Fragile white bell flowers are blooming, white petals bent and bowed on tiny green stems. Gold crocus blossoms dot the mulch in the yard across the street.
We’ll have two days of sunshine and then the rain comes, turning back to snow that will again melt into the wet earth, the smell of mud and new life rising from it in the afternoon.
And so it goes, as February gives way to March. Winter gives up a day to Spring before returning, but the warm days are more frequent and the cold days fewer and it’s just a matter of time, now.
Daffodil leaves have risen out of the dirt and their blooms aren’t far behind.
And though it’s been a mild winter without much to complain of, I’m still glad.
I’ve missed the sun.