It’s here. I think it is. Buds can be seen on trees from afar now, not just upon close inspection. The days are longer, the songbirds louder.
There is a beautiful blackbird who is visiting the garden. I love to hear him sing, high up in the corner tree. He is perfect. Each glossy feather in place and new. Beak so bright. So yellow. His round eye is bold, a hand drawn circle keeping a constant lookout. When I feed the chickens he will be there, waiting for some careless crumbs. He will cock his little head and peer at me. His tiny yellow ringed eye so cautious. My tiny green one so eager for his friendship. Then tail up, and gone!
Spring is pouring in now. All the bulbs and spring flowers are blooming at once. Crocus, daffodil, primrose, tulip. Sun through a window making rooms warm and golden, pouring yellow happiness throughout the house, across the lawn, over the hawthorn hedge and all the way to Stornoway.
Crofts greening up gradually and sheep swell. Geese honking in the air and by the river. Tumbling burn full of cold clean water rushing its way to the sea. The seashore and the sand that starts to warm. Nearly time for bare feet, but not quite. Returning birds, a gannet’s black-tipped ink-dipped wing.
And the sky. That blue is back, that new blue. That promising sky of longer days and warmth and beach and camping and friends, and all good things.
And there, he’s back again, that little blackbird on the lawn.