Phirst Phoebe

After such a trying winter we are thirsty around here for any small sign of spring. We’ve always craved the advent of spring, but this winter left us especially parched for precursors of the renewal of life. We had a record-breaking snowfall this winter, and then it was followed by a persistent cold period, so the white stuff lingered far longer than usual. Even a decently warm day felt chilling, with all that snow around.

By this time of year we are usually taking our first tentative steps in the garden—slogging through muddy walkways and scoping out the first plantings. But not this year. The garden did not cast off its blanket of snow until just a few days ago and the soil is still too frozen or soggy to even think of plunging a shovel into it.

Confined to the house far more than we’d like at this time of year, we’ve been unable to monitor those early spring awakenings that we always hunger for. Normally, if we walk the grounds in late winter and glance through the bare branches of trees, we usually can begin to detect the most subtle change in color: a hint of red or the slightest change from charcoal brown to burgundy. No green yet, but something stirs deep within (the soil or your soul), because you know it’s coming soon.

Another hint is the tentative calls of the year-round resident birds. The Carolina wren might set off in January, but that’s no indicator of spring. It’s the titmice who become the initial heralds of the verdant season. It’s startling to hear one of them spit out a quick, uncertain call in early/mid February—as if he didn’t really mean it… just couldn’t contain himself.

Then there’s an increasing bird chorus in the next couple of weeks. On sunny late-February days they really get into their warm-up act. Even cardinals and chickadees—other year-round residents—pick up on the enthusiasm and begin singing. I wonder what stimulates them. The lengthening of day? A flush of extra sunshine? A zest for spring? A knowledge about the coming season that I lack?

These are all hints of spring, and all are welcome. But I’m not sure I can trust a resident titmouse any more than I can trust my own wishful spring-feverish desires. What is more trustworthy, however, is the first sounds of returning migrating birds. I saw a flock of Canada geese headed north a few days ago, but the deal was sealed this morning, when we heard the first returning phoebe. No mistaking that exuberant call: “FEE-bee FEE-bee, I’m back. Whew! I’m tired. Where are the bugs?”