Peeps and whistles venture from the silent, sleeping Winter.
Robins arrive first, as if forging the way and announcing the coast is clear. For a while, there is overlap between Winter foragers and Spring transplants.
It isn’t long before the Dawn Chorus explodes with raucous delight.
As I listen to the calls of old friends returning to share the season, I am most delighted with the Meadowlark. I ride with my windows down so I can catch snippets of his song as he perches on tilted fence posts. It seems his music travels infinitely through newly minted fields eking their way back into life.
Then, just like Spring itself, his song fades away too quickly; awaiting next year, when the world awakens again.
