Behold, the first robin of spring!
She’s a thrush, actually. American robins aren’t closely related to European robins at all, and are much bigger – and this little cutie’s quite a chunker, at that. She’s made it here early on the strength of those stout wings and that tough set of muscles, hauling herself all the way from Down There to Up Here after a long winter spent afield. There’s fresh meltwater on the ground and new green things sprouting from that and new crawling and squirming things thriving among that, and those have her interest, her attention, and her appetite.
Behold, the first farm cat of spring!
Fresh-grown from a kitten, with a true lithe killer’s body and a sheer maniac’s ears, he’s ready and raring to explore the big scary world he’s walking into. His body is skinny and his head is too big for it and his ears and too big for his head and his brain will never be this small and useless again in his life. He is out in a big green wet place and he is powerful and invincible and has long ago departed the Barn He Knew for the Farm He Knows and is not cautiously venturing into The Farm He Knows Not. There he is looking at something small and feathery and stupidly focused on satiating its appetite and he would like to kill it and maybe eat it and DEFINITELY torture it.
Behold, the first overeager livestock dog of spring!
He was born in the barn of the farm across the way, to murder coyotes and kill wolves and slaughter cougars and shred lynx and bully bobcats and the farm cat is none of those but his instincts tell him to do things that his common sense would not, and so – lured by a brief, feathery sqwark and a strong smell of thin blood and feathers – he makes joyous riot after the farm cat, squirming under a fence and over a fence and through a third fence from property to property and back again, jaws snapping and tail wagging in the sheer gleeful purpose of his life, which is violence without regard for his own survival.
Behold, the first herbs of spring!
Medicinal, consumable, quite very much reliable. Soft little tender shoots eeling up through moist clods of dark damp soil, beginning to unfurl fresh leaves for a newly—bright sun. They are frail and beautiful and can make life and death when placed in single pinches into hot water or in generous sprinkles onto bland food, and each and every one of them lie dead and pulverized under a riot of stampeding furry feet and blood.
Behold, the first gunshot of spring!
It was aimed for an animal that did not belong to the owner of the gun that made it. It hit, which was a fine act of skill and a grave mistake of judgment. It has garnered no meat and it has very badly wasted some lives and it has created much consternation on the other side of the laneway, where feet hurry, hurry, hurry towards it, eager in a special kind of panic.
Behold, the first shouting-match of spring!
It’s new, but its ingredients aren’t. Every sentence is another old grudge brought back from years ago; each accusation brings an ancient retort; no blame is laid without being placed atop another more ancient, like bricks in a wall. Oh how it billows, it spirals, it burns! The fresh clean air is a strong breeze, whipping up grey embers into a fine storm of furious flames! You’ve Always rubs shoulders with You’ve Never and catches up on That’s What You Said and You Mean To Tell Me That before making way for the furious, stone-cold presence of This Isn’t Over.
Behold, the first night of spring!
It’s quiet, and it’s peaceful, and in one house there’s a gun under the pillow and in another there’s a shotgun over the mantle and in both of them there’s an owner that’s sitting there smoking a long cigarette and a short temper and watching them both burn down, down, down as they stare across the way and think about nothing but things they shouldn’t.
And do not behold – for she is several hundred miles south and still making her way closer gyre by gyre, sauntering from one warm air current to the next – the first turkey vulture of spring.
She’s bald, and prone to chills in her feet, and so is in no rush. She’ll be there when the cold winds are gone, and no sooner, and no amount of haste will change that.
All good things will come to her as she waits.