This week is a happy one for much of the world, at least in the Northern Hemisphere: a counting down of the days, less than a week now, to the first day of official spring. It means a shaking off of the winter blues, a turning of one’s thoughts toward life and renewal, a time when the blues are confined to the skies and the world again goes green.
Here at Red Willow, spring has been much in evidence for most of the year already, one of the unexpected gifts of climate change. It was a short, mild winter, seemingly over almost before it began, with far too little snow and far too much heat.
Normally, the blues of snow and ice would just be beginning to give way to the blues of the waters, and the greens of them, too. The Quartzite should be running through the winding canyon, high and hard and fast, the water level exceeding the curving banks and the color a reflection of the turquoise sky.
Further north, where the Wild Rivers wed the Red River to the Rio Grande, the waters should be green, rapids of raw emerald dashing against boulders the color of jet as they cascade southward in a furious flow. The waters here serve as their own line of demarcation, a running threshold between winter and spring as they transform, mid-flow, from ice and snow to the blue-green lifeblood of the land itself.
This year, of course, the water level is much lower: more stasis, less animation, less speed and force and flow. Absent the gift and great good fortune of a wet April and May, this year’s planting season will be one for conservation. The old ways will, once again, become a matter of urgent necessity: irrigation as stewardship, cultivation as simple sustenance. There is salvation in the old ways, for Mother Earth, and for us, as well.
But even at the best of times, we are entering a difficult season. It is hard on the human body, but also on those of other creatures. The horses bear an extra burden now, as rapid changes in weather and temperature wreak havoc on their bodies. The wilder spirits suffer, too: Those that hibernate, enter torpor, or go dormant for the winter months are being awakened early, and not always to a world ready to receive them.
It is not only the animals, either: The trees have been budding out for months, shedding pollen and birthing cones. Two days ago, the first catkins entered the world, born of bone-colored aspens beneath an indigo sky. And while the willows are not yet green, they are one shade shy of it, the cascading gold of the branches ready to open at any moment into a bright green fountain of tears.
But if the time for green is not yet, the winds arrived weeks ago. We have been fortunate, thus far — only a few weeks in which the willow branches decline to weep in favor of fury’s horizontal embrace. But even in the relative quiet of this day, we know there is more to come, gale-force winds that ride a storm not of rain, but of dust.
And now, with the country’s ever-earlier switch to Daylight Savings Time, there is the disruption of circadian rhythms, of the drumbeat that accompanies the diurnal dance. Sleep makes itself scarce; fatigue assumes primacy of place.
And yet, the season has its compensations: the overflight of the water birds; the song of the meadowlark.
The mild winter led the starlings to remain, and more, to birth a new generation in its depths. They have been given safe harbor here, and for the first time in memory, they birthed and raised two broods back to back.
Now, the whole clan lives here. The younger generations, having been born and raised close to human habitation, are less afraid, more willing to remain in the trees as we move back and forth below. They know where to find food, and make liberal use of dog kibble and chicken scratch. They join me at prayer in the morning, and follow our footsteps throughout the day.
On this day, still bright and warm of evening, they made their first use of the birdbath, a shimmying dance of water and light. They have already begun to trade their winter plumage for brighter, more iridescent warm-weather robes.
On this evening, the starlings sit atop the aspens in the angled light, silhouetted against a cornflower sky. They sing a song of spring blues: no mourning notes here, only mimicry and mirth; a song of hope and the promise of warmer winds to come.
~ Aji
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