Early yesterday morning, coaxed into mingling with the other humans by a routine, medical appointment, we treated ourselves to a stroll around the West Rutland Marsh armed with binocs and a camera. (And of course, still, masks.)
We heard it the instant we opened the car doors: the hey-I’m-here-where-is-everybody trill of the Red-Winged Black bird. It wasn’t the first one I’d seen this year—a male and female perched in the twiggy tops of a tree in our yard the day before—but it was the first I heard, and photographed.
And this is how the spring returns for me, not with the snow melt, or the Vernal Equinox or sleep-depriving daylight savings switch. It’s the Red-Winged Black bird crying from treetops and marsh grasses, returning as promised—making sure we are all okay after winter’s dimness.
And suddenly, remarkably, we are. Thanks to them.