A Lion for the Lambs

Lambing season starts in a couple of weeks. Like the return of red-winged blackbirds and the yellowing of goldfinch plumage, the arrival of lambs is proof of the inevitability of spring. Never have I needed such harbingers more than during this, my first Ohio winter since 1992. The weather has been psychadelic, ranging from the 60s to the teens in as littls as twelve hours. The sky's wardrobe changes leaves Cher's personal best in the dust.

This morning as I waited outside for my puppy to poop I heard the thrilling sound of songbirds. My heart beat more quickly and I smiled despite (or because of?) the cold breeze whipping my bare legs beneath my bathrobe. Living in cities and suburbia for fifteen years I'd forgotten the rhythms of migration. Each month I live here I re-learn the facts of my childhood: no mosquito bites until the swallows and purple martins leave in late August, the gradual silence that descends throughout the fall as the songbirds travel South, how to tell buzzards from hawks from eagles in flight.

Soon enough, blackbirds bobbing on swaying grasses will replace crows perched on corn stumps. It's time to plan the vegetables and flowers that require spring planting. I'm going to try shallots this year and more roses. Colored bell peppers, too. Typical evenings now include a large needle and string to repair the blueberry nets.

So take that, old man winter, and stuff it in your leonine pipe. The lambs will come, the rye will be plowed under, the sun will warm, and you, kind sir, will be escorted off for naptime. Kisses!

~M


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