The Deliverance of Geese

Sitting here on my couch writing, I just heard the familiar sound of a Canada goose passing over. The gift of a cacophonous honk was not grating or discordant. It was deliverance from the icy clutch of winter, resolute in its grasp.

Yesterday was my birthday. My mom and I each year without fail always have a brief conversation comparing the weather of the present to the weather of the day I was born. I can recall the story without taxing a nerve. It was 65 degrees, the hospital was under construction, and the unexpected heat was stifling. But my mom always reminds me that five days later, when she and dad were ready to go home, the "normal" weather of March (if such an assertion could be true) had returned.

This annual parable of the weather of March is a rational reminder that spring is elusive, fleeting, and innately ephemeral. It's upon us when we least expect it but when we want it most, and away when we're none to eager to let it leave. This ritual of the vernal gardener grows pangful with each succeeding year our love of all things spring becomes hedonistic. It takes form in the pleasure in the chilly mornings and warm afternoons. The delight in silver maple blossoms that in due time litter the yard like pomengranates. Perseverant snowdrops and crocuses that push through the crust of snow and remain lovely tinged in hoarfrost. The return of melodic songbirds that with cheery presence garden with us through the rest of the season.

It's in the form of clamorous Canada geese that fly over at 7:00 PM delivering the windfalls of spring and the laurels of a new gardening season.