I give in to the luxury of fatigue. After two busy days, I accept that I have little reserves and can visualize a literal lack of oxygen in red blood cells flowing through my body. Rest will replenish. I succumb to it.
I finished a book today. It took a year to read. Last March, I received The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl. There was no card or indication of who had sent it, but, when I opened the box and looked at the cover, I felt the sender knew me. I scanned through the book and thought, “This is the book I’ve wanted to write!” I kissed the cover, holding it close and took in the fragrance of its pages. I later discovered my friend, Keturah, had sent it. She bought a copy for herself, as well. She and I are kindred spirits.
Every Sunday, for 52 weeks, I read a chapter about birds, about the author’s life, about the weather where she lived, about the season, about the flow of nature. I dotted the end of the chapters with my own thoughts, my own observations of my own birds in my own backyard.
I texted Keturah when I’d finished it today. She responded that she had finished the book, as well, and said she might read it again. I had already logged the book into my list of read-titles and placed it on my shelf with other bird books. After her comment, I retrieved the book and placed it back on the porch where I will start reading it again next Sunday morning. I imagine we will learn new things reading it a second time because we are changed from reading it a first time.
I notice the birds are more active and certainly more vocal this morning. The house sparrows are particularly boisterous as they compete for space in my neighbor’s overgrown hedge. The goldfinches are yellowing before my eyes. Gone is the muted tone of winter; enter, the golden glow of spring.
I’ve begun using an app on my phone called “Merlin Bird ID”. My son-in-law told me about it, sharing that it identifies the sounds and songs of particular birds. Now I know who is singing even when I can’t see him. One thing I’ve noticed is the the number of song variations the birds have—particularly the northern cardinal. It chirps, sings, calls. Short, long, longer calls. There have been more flocking birds, as well: brown-headed cowbirds, European starlings, common grackles. I let them have their fun and then leave the feeders empty for a while to allow them to move on, before refilling.

Spring happens quickly. Much changes one day to the next. The view from my desk shows the continuing growth of the red buds to the left and the opening of the purple flowers on the rhododendron to the right. Straight ahead I see my friend’s house through the backyard of another neighbor. I see her red door and the blue car in her driveway. When her door is open, I see the white face of her older golden retriever as he rests there looking out to the street through the storm door. Soon, the trees will fill in and I’ll no longer have that view. I will miss it.

Our dog, Stella, is 11 years old today. We rescued her three years ago. We were told she was five. Our vet aged her up from there. She is the smallest of our three dogs, weighing in at a slight 9.8 pounds to their 65 pounds each.
I love dogs of all ages. I adore puppy breath and the awkward stages of adolescence. Our two labs are five years old and are beginning to settle into themselves. But, I have a special place in my heart for the older dogs. For the ones with the gray muzzles and the opaque eyes. For the ones with the creaky joints and missing teeth. For the ones who have lived and seen and grew to be beloved. My daughter said goodbye to her German Shepherd, Jada, a couple of weeks ago. Jada, who had been with her for 14 years. She welcomed Angela’s husband, their three children, and three other dogs. She had a large pack and she led it well. Nothing makes me smile more than to see their faces, like the wrinkles on an old woman, knowing they have led many. These old girls like Stella and Jada have been matriarchs. Their loss is great.
Spring moves steadily on. Buds emerge, birds build nests, kids crowd baseball and soccer fields while those who love them cheer heartily. All growing, all changing, as we join them at our own pace.