On this balmy March evening, the moon is rising full and sleepy, wreathed in a hazy halo. Some robins are still making a fuss about the lawn, while others chirp their cheerful twilight song from nearby boughs. Theirs is the song of spring.
The snow is gone and the earth is barren. There is nothing around but flattened, lifeless grass, different shades of yellow and brown. Warm, humid air wafts up from the ground, still warm from the sun. The cat rubs my legs and accompanies me through the evening shadows.
Moisture clings to all the organic matter and therefore it smells like spring – ripe with promise. There is a thin bite in the air; winter’s fingers still linger here. There is the cackling of distant geese as they arrive, finding their places up and down the marsh.
Happy people are in their houses, lights twinkling on for dinner. The evening speaks with the hushed chatter of all things big and small. The streams are gushing away deep in the woods. The squirrels have ceased chasing one another noisily through the dry leaves of autumns past, at least for tonight, and meanwhile, the downy woodpecker investigates a newfound nook at the corner of the garden.