signs of spring? or...?

We've had several days in a row of clear skies and temperatures verging occasionally above freezing. The trees have been hoodwinked into thinking, "It's time!" They don't have eyes, so they can't see the snow still lying on the ground in patches. They don't have ears or television sets, so they don't hear the weather forecasters saying, "We'll have more snow before the season ends." Fools, hopeful fools--they are putting out new growth. Tips of branches are turning red. The fuzzy nodules that will become leaves are starting to appear. Yes, there are reports of robins, but as naturalists remind us, not all robins migrate to warmer climates. Some of them (true Michiganians, apparently) would not think of heading South. Like the native humans, they huddle up, shiver, and tell each other, "This is wonderful! We love this weather!" At least they are smart enough not to break their twiggy little legs trying to ski and snowboard. They stay off those death traps called snowmobiles.

But. We've been hearing the doves cooing, and occasionally the geese fly overhead toward Canada. Yes, the forecast for tomorrow morning is ice. Yes, the weather forecaster says that Winters like we've had usually are followed by turbulent, tornado-prone Springs (he's trying to get us to wish Spring back into its box). Yes, Shakespeare wrote that March winds doth blow and we shall have snow, and what will poor robin do then, poor thing? Poor robin will ache and shiver with flu-like symptoms and hack up his little bird lungs from bronchitis, that's what.

Again: But. It's March. Mid-March, even. It's going to get better, maybe slowly, but certainly surely. I will once again be able to walk outside with no coat on. The dingbat robin who yearly protects his nest will once again knock himself silly against the sliding glass doors and dining room windows, trying to fight that worst of enemies, his own reflection. Plants we forgot we had will crawl, Carrie-like, from their graves, little dead tendrils coming alive and reaching upward.

Spring means so much more here. It is so longed for, so brief, so tentative and shy. In Louisiana and Georgia, Spring comes in late February, if not sooner. By March, azaleas are everywhere. By April, we are turning on the air-conditioners full time. Summer arrives by May and lasts until late September. It's hard for the heart to grow fonder when there is so little absence.

As old lady Tannehill used to say, "Spring is sprung. The grass is riz. I wonder where them birdies is." It's coming. We've got a birdie or two. The grass is still under the snow, though. Dr. S.