He commences in mid-winter,
when the landscape is frozen and
blanketed with snow
and the ice that does not crack
beneath my feet.
There have been other murmurings,
muffled whisperings and chip notes
from white-throats and
song sparrows,
the short-lived, rollicking chorus
of the Carolina wren,
a snatch of the towhee's song,
as if he had forgotten himself and
absentmindedly spoken
aloud.
On warmer days
house finches trot out their first phrases,
and the cardinal in the arborvitae
tentatively tunes up his whistle but,
as the next storm descends,
expectations recede and
their voices still.
It is not yet time.
Still, there are those who
carry hope, who,
even as snow swirls and
the temperatures plummet,
have begun the song that,
is now unquenchable.
Tufted titmice, those jaunty, bright-eyed,
grey little beings who
flit after one another through the woodlands,
are enthusiastically
thinking spring thoughts
on these frigid,
though lengthening,
days.
For those who have ears,
their simple notes bless
our winter weariness
with an absolute
annual promise.
No matter how seemingly far off,
the earth will soften
once again
and spring will
slowly,
stealthily,
almost invisibly,
begin.
Who knows?
Perhaps,
it already
has.
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