~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


THE BRIGHTLING THRUSH

Well there must be something in the air, because this morning when I woke up it felt like the same winter chill that has prevailed since Siberia came down for its recent visit, but unlike the last long bunch of yesterdays, the birds were going wild; dawn was filled with birdsong. The manic warbler was back in force atop the still leafless weeping cherry, with a flitter of potential girlfriends darting among the bamboo still bent over from the recent snow. There were some wheatears in there too, and several other blurry dashes of color whizzing around in the big excitement they were taking part in, guess this must be it: the beginning of spring. I was reminded of the closing lines of Thomas Hardy's exquisite Darkling Thrush: "That I could think there trembled through/ His happy good-night air/ Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew/ And I was unaware." Spring was that Hope.