I'm not the first person to be compelled to write about springtime, nor will I be the last. I'm probably not even the first person to write the previous sentence. Robert Frost, Robert Blake, Shakespeare all wrote eloquently of springtime so what could I add that they did not already cover? Nothing, but it does not matter since I have no choice. The only thoughts in my head are of spring. Specifically all of the birds that seemed to know it was coming before me.
The male Black-capped Chickadee, state bird of Maine, is the herald of life after winter. There was one perched on the bare branches of a tree outside of my office last week. Although I heard him before I saw him. Today was almost warm, just breaking 60 degrees--40 degrees warmer than I week ago, and it was sunny. I walked around the perimeter of my office building, continuing my search for life and found a single purple flower up against the concrete foundation. I also saw that the trees were not bare, they had smallish fuzzy buds which I petted like a rabbit foot for luck. If the luck works It will be another 20 degrees warmer next week.
The second harbinger of spring is the willingness of my sons to take a walk with me. For an hour, we were able to hang up our winter coats along with our cares and traipse outside. Meandering down the windy street we daydreamed semi-realistic hopes for a home in the future, and not so realistically planned our defense strategies in the event of a zombie apocalypse. I'm thinking that early spring with the good visibility of bare trees would be an asset when avoiding the walking undead. But the birds just might give us away.
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