The sun is getting ready to slip beneath the horizon, far
enough north by now that its setting will soon be hidden from my view by the
big spruce trees beside the garden when I’m sitting at my desk. Nights might
still be cool from time to time (last night it was -7), a feathery layer of
snow might have covered the lawn this morning, but there is no denying anymore
that spring has arrived.
The last two weeks have seen rapidly shrinking snow banks
so that, by now, just a few dirty remnants are left on the north sides of
buildings and tree lines. For days last week ditches were filled with quick-running
water, its gurgling as cheerful a sound as I could imagine at the end of a long
winter.
A little over a week ago I heard the honking of a single goose on my evening walk;
the next night I saw six, and three days ago the first long drawn-out ‘V’s passed
overhead. Ever since then the air has been reverberating with their voices in
the half hour or so just before sunset: they gather in the water-filled low
area in the field adjacent to our home quarter, convening from all directions.
During the day couples pass overhead, long necks stretched out, black feet
tucked up against their creamy bellies. They give the impression as if they
know exactly where they are going.
Ducks have not yet made it this far north, and I have not yet seen a hawk either. Gulls, on the other
hand, have arrived with the geese, and their raucous calls mix with the honking
in the early evening hours. In vain I keep looking for the robins, for many the
true harbingers of spring. It feels as if this is late for them, but I’m not
sure that is true. The last few years we still had snow at this time, last year
massive amounts. Maybe the earlier snow melt has clouded my judgement.
One faithful messenger has been with us ever since we came
back from Arizona on March 26, however. A group of starlings braved much colder
conditions, huddling close together in the tall spruce at night, heads pulled low between
their shoulders on especially miserable days. They spread out to the higher poplars
when the sun is starting its descent. Then, their sweet voices sound back and
forth between the tree tops.
Most people look at me a bit askance when I talk
about my delight in these birds: starlings have a bad reputation for some
reason I cannot understand. They are only noticeable now, before any of the
other song birds return, and again in the fall when they gather on power lines
before they leave for their winter quarters.
Nobody seems to understand how I
can call their voices beautiful either. Maybe it is because nobody takes the
time to listen. Sure, it might be a bit presumptuous to call their whistle,
repeated a few times like a clearing of the throat, a song – but that is only
the beginning. Soon, this evolves into a low twitter not unlike that of a swallow,
followed by variations on the theme. They have quite an amazing repertoire, and
I haven’t tired of listening to them yet. Wings drooping at their side, head
thrown back, iridescent chest feathers sparkling in the late sunlight they are,
to me, as much a joy as soon the robins will be.
Most afternoons in the last while my walks with Leo have taken
me to the dugout – the pond – where I found evidence of beaver activities in
the fall. I am curious, of course, if they are still around, if they indeed
spent the winter in this small body of water, sustained by the tree limbs they
harvested before it froze. Every day there is a bit more open water, partly
from melting, partly because water runs in from the neighbour’s field south of
here. I sit on one of the bigger logs the beavers felled before winter set in
and wait. I hear Leo rustling in the long dry grass on the other side, never
able to sit still for more than a couple of minutes at best, prowling, pushing his nose
in mouse holes. Once he lifts up his head with four feet and a tail hanging out of his
mouth.
Clouds and branches are reflected in the still water, the slender smooth trunks of the young poplars have gathered the rays of the sun and seem to glow. The only foreign sound is the slowly nearing rumble of a train, its mournful howl at every crossing almost silenced when the wind is coming from the west. It is a very peaceful place now.
When I went out yesterday a thin layer of ice covered even the water that had been open before. The night had been quite cold, and all day the
temperature had hovered just above freezing. I noticed several holes in the surface of the dugout, about thirty or
forty centimetres in diameter, shards of ice along their edges as if something
had pushed up from below here. Could these be the beavers’ exit holes?
Leo,
too, acted differently than the days before. He was very excited, kept stepping
on the thin ice at the pond’s edge, sniffing intently, ears and tail quivering
with concentration. He raced to the other side, continuing his quest, almost bursting
with the desire to step on the ice, yet thankfully smart enough not to attempt it. I held onto
his collar, searching for a brown head, a hunched body – nothing. Maybe I was
just interpreting what I saw because I wanted to see it. But suddenly there was
a splash, followed by another, quieter one. While I didn’t see the beaver I now
know for sure it is (they are?) still around.
A moment later all was silent again, the surface still and
unmoving. I will come back, but I think it might be better if Leo stays home.
