The spring birds are back. Or at least they are on their way.
As if in some random parade, a new variety of feathered friends keeps showing up here, there, and everywhere: January 30th a flock of robins pecking in the leaves of my backyard; February 23rd, the surprise of a bluebird outside my window-its feathers as radiant as a star sapphire; same day, the low, graceful flight of a dozen white swans gliding to a nearby pond; March 1st, red-winged black birds back at my feeder; and every day on my river walk, more wild fluttering of iridescent mallards and diving coots.
All bring joy to a bleak landscape, the in-between time of winter to spring.
But as I wrote this perspective, I paused like a migrating bird, to consider how to continue.
Should I segue into the alarming bird flu which is causing the death of thousands of these migrating birds as they head north, not to mention killing millions of poultry, and thereby rocketing the cost of eggs?
Maybe, I should try a subtle metaphor of sorts- our spring birds and their suit of feathers and whether they are dressed appropriately for carving out territory and peaceful co-existence in the trees?
Then again, perhaps I should follow the path of our feathered friends to the National Parks and ponder how the huge elimination of National Park staff will affect the habitat and survival of our already greatly diminished bird population?
But no…no I thought. I will stay focused on the beauty of birds returning. The miracle of spring migration, as always, winging much needed hope our way. Because that’s what I, and maybe you, need most.
