Sounds of Spring

Each season has its own colors, smell, and sounds.  One day the air just feels different and, without looking at the calendar, you know the seasons have changed.  The large number of birds that nest in the live oak in the front yard begin their noisy territorial chatter before daybreak now.  There aren't many songbirds up here; none of the meadowlarks or mockingbirds that I knew in southern California.  I don't know where the Rod-RI-go dude went, but his mate calls for him all day long and is getting somewhat frantic.  Another sound announcing the arrival of spring is the croaking of frogs.  These are little-bitty guys, the largest about the size of a quarter, but they've been gifted with big voices.  Many live in the flower pots on the deck, and when they gather for choir practice, they can drown out the television.  They're everywhere.  I almost squooshed one yesterday when I closed the barn door, and once in awhile one will sneak into the house to play with the cats.  (Not a good idea.)  In fall, one hears chainsaws...in spring, it's lawn tractors and weed-whackers.  On a beautiful day like yesterday, it's a siren song that calls one to join in, and I succumbed.  While milking, I do a lot of planning, hold mental conversations, work out problems.  There is something Zen-like about mowing on the little tractor.  Cutting down the better part of an acre, up hill and down, takes some concentration:  following the pattern, avoiding pitfalls dug by Bess as she hunts gophers, saving patches of wildflowers.  It's a time of pure sensation...the smell of the mown "grass," the feel of the sun on shoulders and the breeze, the sound of the engine.  No serious thought is required.  It creates a bubble of calm in time.  I love to mow.

Rocket did go on vacation during the night.  I really like that thought. 

Oh good grief...it's not yet seven o'clock and that dippy bird is already yelling for Rod-RI-go...he must not have come home last night either.