We’re buried under a foot of snow, but the birds won’t stop singing.
March descended with a roar of northern winds and broke the clouds as they crashed about up there in the white sky. Snow and more snow fell and fell.
We are wrapped in winter’s white but the finches are gathered in the clusters of last summer’s leaves in the clematis vine near my kitchen window. An oriole has stopped his journey homeward to munch on the dried crabapples hanging on the bare branches of the tree by the front door. In a day or two he’ll be gone. The orioles land for pit stops but never stay.
And they sing. For all accounts it is winter, but they chatter on about the coming spring. They cluster and they fly and they wing from branch to feeder to fence line, from hope to hope to hope. Spring is…
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