The redwing blackbird is full of himself this morning, loudly announcing to the neighborhood that his scarlet wing bands have been freshly preened and making known to the world that he is a master flutist, a regular Jean Pierre Rampal except that this maestro’s melody disintegrates into a shrill rasp, as if a child had burst into the concert hall with a toy percussion instrument.

An attentive robin hops tip-toe across the wet grass, cocking her head to discern whether there might be worms whispering below, and purple periwinkles chuckle around her feet, flaunting their presence to tease whomever might have scattered grass seed around. That would be moi.

perfect crocus

Spring Crocus