The avian air traffic over the meadow has increased delightfully and exponentially in the past week. I know that birds returning to the area are not tethered to the calendar like we are, but they did arrive exactly on the day of the spring equinox, leaving us to wonder which of them had the planner cued up as they made their way from anyplace south of the Ohio River. The soundtrack of my morning walks is now a rich symphony of robinsong, finch calls and woodpeckers who take their role in the percussion section rather seriously. In the swampier areas that line the footpaths by the woods, the spring peepers’ high-pitched chorus slides easily over and around the cardinal’s insistence that warmer days are coming, adding a literal and poetic spring to my step as I move from the field into the creek-blessed meadow. When I arrive back at the house, I’m soaked with the music of all things living, grateful for the season tickets and front row seats we’ve been given (and the mockingbirds aren’t even in the mix yet. Oh my heart…).

Getting to know this land (and she getting to know us) has been a sustained and evolving dance through eighty-nine seasons so far where the somewhat predictable is interrupted by the occasional “what the heck was that ?!”, in the form of a mid-February lightning sky show or a late June derecho that yanked once-sturdy cottonwoods from their sentry positions along the creekbanks and plastered the west side of our house with leaves on its way across the eastern field. Over the years, we’ve tilled and planted, built barns and placed lawn furniture at strategic spots along the walking paths in case we need to sit down in the middle of a morning’s mosey to contemplate the delicate emergence of spring beauties or estimate how many batches of garlic mustard pesto we’ll make between May and July. In the usual lopsided shape of the human-and-natural-world relationship, our side is clearly marked by humble deference (what human can stop a straight line wind with her hand? I mean really…) while Hers is all showy abundance and mystery and a gentle tolerance of our absent-minded and distracted tendencies. I have no intention of trying to balance the scales. Such folly is best left aside and in its place, deep wordless respect, the kind that leaves one’s mouth agape while starting upward into the inky black space above. That, and a promise to return the garden tools to the shed is about all we can offer most days. She seems to understand, or else what was last night’s grand sunset all about?

This morning, she’s dressed in browns and grays, with tiny pearls of early spring snow gadding about in a stiff north wind. A handful of robins march in stop-and-start fits across the just-greening grass, stopping to turn a hidden ear to what might be crawling beneath (at least, that’s what it looks like from the bathroom window) while the green tips of those family heirloom tulips my uncle gave me last fall stand bravely in a line as if guarding the living room windows. Should I wrap them in little tulip plant scarves to ride out this week’s colder temps, or leave them to it and trust, once again, that they have what they need, no help from me? It’s so hard not to intervene.

Inside, the space heater hums warmly with two of the kittens jockeying for the best spot in front of it while Patrick reads next to me on the couch. Breakfast dishes are done, and we’ve committed to a walk later, no matter what the predictions say about where the thermometer’s red line is going to land before it’s time to tuck in the chickens for the night. At day’s end, we’ll lay our heads on the pillowed reassurance of a tulip bulb’s intuition, keeping hope alive for the season that’s only just beginning.