Thirty-Five Degrees

Yesterday, I heard a telephone bird for the first time this spring.

Even with a foot of snow still on the ground, even with the threat of more snow ever on the horizon, I can still connect the two: Telephone bird and spring.

This is where the Internet fails me. I have no idea what the real name of the telephone bird is. If someone out there knows, please tell me. I think it's a type of jay or thrush, but the bird has a distinct call that sounds like a telephone -- and old one, with the dial -- ringing. They always sing spring to me.

Yesterday was beautiful. High thirties and low forties for highs. Relatively speaking, that's tropical. That sets the snow on the roof of the house to melting, dripping down the shingles and splatting on the ground. It makes me want to smash. Smash the ice and snow caked on the driveway, smash the ice and snow caked on the edges of the sidewalks, smash the ice and snow clinging to the sunlit edges of snowdrifts and piles so it falls apart and melts faster.

Things emerge as the snow melts. The wood pile doubles in size as the stuff that's been covered on the ground is revealed and begins to dry. I see snatches of grass next to the house where the snow can't fall. Underneath the snow lays the promises of crocuses, tulips, and the brae branches of the cherry trees yearn to explode.

When I hear the meadowlark, I know spring is here and winter cannot return until the season is right. But as long as I can hear the telephone bird, spring lays waiting, in hope.