Here in the Northeast it's been a day of snow snow snow.
Yesterday I heard the chickadees' mating song: a long two-note fee-beeee whistle. I watched a male mourning dove carry a small bundle of sticks in its beak to assist its mate with nest building. It was forty degrees, and the sun warmed my skin. The snow in our backyard had melted around the fringe of our 14-acre woodlot. The hens dug and scratched in the thawing soil rich with chickie delights. They stretched their legs and wings and savored the sunlit feast.
Today they refuse to leave their coop's warmth and the close proximity of grain and water. I imagine the chickadees and mourning doves are huddled on a branch in a sheltered copse of trees. They're not fools. Neither am I. This morning I pulled on long johns and wool socks and baked a chocolate cake to fill the kitchen with warm sweetness. I sipped lemon-ginger tea, watched the snow swirl around outside the windows, and remembered that Spring officially arrives tomorrow morning. Eventually this storm will blow out of town, the snow will melt, and the nest-building will begin again.
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