Living on the edges of Montana towns, I’ve been gifted with birds. For four years of my life I occupied an old, historic converted Ranger’s Station (to dash all notions of charm– it was pretty much a miniature single wide trailer) on a cowboy horse packer’s property that was propped-up amidst the shrub lands at the urban-wildland interface of Missoula, Mont. It had it’s charm with a long dusty road entryway, a metal roof, old barn-wood framed windows. It’s closet-sized kitchen, complete with the only closet in the house, made getting dressed while frying an egg and starting coffee in the morning easily done from the one stool and collapsible TV table you could squeeze in there. It had a dorm-sized fridge, no freezer and a miniature stove and sink. All 300 sq feet of it was more than enough for me and a pack of dogs, however.
Thanks to the shrubs, every Spring I was often one of the first to witness the annual bird migration– varied thrushes and white-crowned sparrows would spend a few days loitering, fattening up on my offerings of seed and suet before moving on to higher, more densely forested places. I would awake with child-like joy every time I heard their songs on the first day of their arrival; thrilled they were back, singing for me. Every morning one lone chickadee would start his plea, telling all females within earshot of his prowess, his virility, his superior genes and with the kind of gusto you just don’t expect from a 5 inch being. Once he began, the robins started. Then followed the cacophony. Pure heaven.
Waking up to the song of the first chickadee brings me indescribable happiness. Lying there, slowly waking up, in the wee hours, to the tune of big love from a little body, anxiously anticipating the crescendo when more would join-in. It doesn’t get any better, really.
Currently, I’m buried in deep winter. Been the case for over four months with many more to go and it’s starting to feel daunting, like I may never see Mother Earth again and I miss her terribly.
On a recent morning as the sun was just starting to break, I was sure I heard the first chickadee singing. Suddenly in a three-quarters sleep-state I was smelling Spring too. I stayed in that moment briefly, relishing it. Longing for it. Willing it to be so.
Then I woke with the realization that it was a sick dog whining to be let out. All dreams dashed in an instant.
Why does Spring have to be so far away?