Spring Cometh

I know it because the crows are back. They've been shouting all week, claiming their territory. Which happens to be my territory, actually. I'm almost sure I was here before the crows, at least these crows. I hollered at two of them yesterday who walked cockily around my lawn pulling up worms. They didn't budge, acted like I was the intruder.

I mention this because of my finches, of course. I have seen no sign of them and worry they'll not be back. They did not come last year because of the crows. (I wrote of it then.) The flickers are here and the house sparrows. I've seen a few quail about and a robin or two. But I can't call them mine. I do call the finches mine. They used my wreath as their home for 17 years--a new wreath every year, of course--and allowed me watch the entire business of their lives.

Obviously, I miss the finches. It's partly because I always think of Wayne when they come back and set up household on my front porch. They were a nice little springtime gift for the two of us. Their absence leaves a hole in the season I don't how to fill.

It's a truth that we humans search for meaning and usually make meaning out of the incidents of our lives, and so I look at this small drama and wonder at its significance. Perhaps it's a signal that underlines the advice a widow often gives herself: move on. Whatever that means. Perhaps there is no significance.

The reality is that the crows are here, a daily irritant. They're hard to ignore because they are always visible and rarely silent, a real in-your-face bird. But, after all, they provide me with grumble material. I guess there's something to be said for that.