Spring

by Beth Alexander Walsh

    The long ache of winter has subsided, and my yard stretches back to life. The last patches of snow beneath the pines are being swallowed up by the greedy roots below, and I plunge my spade into the cold dark soil, keenly aware of my surroundings. The crocuses; unsure of the last two storms have finally erupted, their cheerful blooms urging the tulips and daffodils to do the same.  

     A long feather flies up as I begin to turn the soil. The wild turkeys have been claiming the yard for several weeks now; their morning cackle replacing the alarm clock on my bedside table.  The hens wander the yard unconcerned as they peck at the ground, while the toms strut in circles, fanning their plumes with great bravado. Occasionally the group will stop traffic in front of my house, when their antics spill into the road. I toss the feather and continue my work.

     The kale left through the winter is still green, but thick and tough, and it takes several pulls before it is removed from the soil. I continue digging while mentally noting what will be planted in each section of the bed. The tomatoes and zucchini will work better against the wall separating the strawberry patch from the rest of the garden. A row of lettuce will go across the edge of the bed for easy access.

    My thoughts concerning peppers are interrupted by splashes in the pond behind me, as several ducks crash into the water. Their presence is usually another sign that spring has returned, although the last two years they have skipped their southern vacation. I assume global warming is the culprit.   A drake begins to quack his annoyance at my presence, as I stand between him and the birdseed that chickadees have sprayed from the feeders to the ground below. Last night I heard a chorus of chirps from the first spring peepers, and I look for other signs of life in the pond.

      Years ago my children and I would arm ourselves with mason jars to fill with tadpoles and pond water. Later, they would sit at the kitchen table, watching them swim around, looking for signs of sprouting legs. The jars were always a hit in school during show and tell.  I miss the days of small children putting on rubber boots, and running through mud to see what new form of life appeared in the water. On land we would check for traces of deer and wait for bunnies to appear from under bushes. Pussy willows were another favorite. I would cut small sprigs to place in their tiny hands, and they would brush the furry pods across pink cheeks.  

     As I contemplate my next chore, a turtle’s head breaks through the surface of the water, and I know we will soon find them navigating through our lawn in search of a place to lay their eggs.    

     Pulling my attention back to the strawberries, I remove the blanket of straw that has protected them all winter. I can almost taste the sweet warm berries as I pull the netting back over the plants, leaving a few uncovered so the birds may share in the bounty.

     Spring is a hopeful season, with the possibilities seeming to grow along with the extra hours of daylight.  The awakening of new life beckons me outside to become part of it, digging and planting to make my own contribution.