I went out on the last day of winter to see if I believed it.
I had been driving for much of the day, having woken up in a hotel room in the middle of North Dakota to find that during my sleep snow had fallen.
It was the last day of winter and, well, you know how winter likes to hold on to the spotlight around here.
I waited a bit then before scraping the windshield of my car and heading back west on a quiet and slick highway, lingering over morning talk shows and hotel room coffee.
The weatherman said it would warm up nicely, the sun would shine and the roads would clear on this, the last day of winter.
150 miles west those roads were shut down and traffic backed up. Too slippery to be safe.
Not spring yet.
Oh no. Not yet.
But we gave it some time then, under the sun, and the fog lifted off of the thawing out lakes. The snow plow came.
White to to slush. The earth warmed up.
And me and my guitar buried under a mountain of groceries made it back home to the buttes on the last day of winter.
And when I arrived I changed out of my good boots and into the ones made for mud and I went out in it, knowing full well that just because it says “Spring” today on the calendar hanging by the cabinets on the wall, doesn’t mean the snow won’t fall tomorrow.
I heard the snow is going to fall again tomorrow.
But today I’m sitting in a patch of sunshine making its way through the windows, bouncing off the treetops, on to the deck and into this house and I’m telling you about yesterday, the last day of winter, when the brown dog and I headed east to my favorite spot to see how the land weathered the bitter cold of the season.
I followed the cow trail behind the house and through the gate, where the petrified bovine hoof prints from last fall magically turned into fresh tracks in the mud of the elk who make their home back here.
Sniff sniff sniff went the nose of my lab as he wove back and forth, back and forth in the hills and trees in front of me, always looking for something.
Squish squish squish went the rubber soles of my boots on the soft ground.
And then there was the wind, everything is second to the sound of it in my ears.
But as we followed our feet up and over the hills and down the trails to the stock dam there was another sound I couldn’t place.
It sounded like crickets or whatever those bugs are that make noise in the water at night. But it was too early for bugs. Too cold for crickets just yet.
I stepped up on the bank of the dam and watched my lab take a chilly spring swim in the water where an iceberg still floated white and frozen in the middle.
I put my hands on my hips and tried to place that unfamiliar music over my dog’s panting and shaking and splashing about.
It could be frogs, if frogs chirped like that, but there are not frogs just yet…or snakes or minnows or other slimy things that disappear when the cold comes…
No…none of those things…
but there are birds…
and well…look at all of them up there in that tree,
perched and fluttering, covering almost every branch.
Are they singing? I think it’s them.
Listen to that!
Relentless in their chirping conversation against the blue sky of the last day of winter and unafraid of the big, clumsy, slobbering canine sniffing them out.
Not phased by his two legged companion squish squish squishing up to the tree, shielding her eyes so she could get a better look at them.
A flock of proud little birds with puffed out chests, wearing tufts on their heads like tiny showgirls in Vegas.
Putting on a show for us on the last day of winter…
And if you would have asked me earlier that morning if winter was over, the fresh snow stuck to the bottom of my boots, my white knuckle grip on the wheel and my breath making puffs into the morning air as I pulled off the highway and stepped out of my car to admire the view, I would have said oh no, it is not over yet.
But under that tree full of songbirds I would have believed in anything…spring and summer and music and joy and tiny little feathered miracles who know, without a doubt, when to fly home.