Hopeful; or I Hear It's Called "Spring"

You’re gonna wanna hold on to your hats – and any other bits of clothing that tend to fly off when you’re excited – but I have something new to report.

Also – are you seated?

Because there are birds.

In the trees.

I know! It had me blinking, I can tell you that much, but there – up there – in the trees, are birds.

Singing, chirping, non-Crow birds.

Surely barefootedness is just around the corner?

It’s been a long season.

Oh, come on, Pearl! You live in Minnesota! It’s not like you didn’t see the winter coming.
I hear you. I acknowledge your line of thinking.

But you are wrong. I didn’t see winter coming, not for what it really is, just like I don’t really see summer coming. You must know by now that the only way one can live in a part of the world like Minnesota is to develop seasonal amnesia.

Winter? Said during the heavy-wet-wool-blanket of heat known as August, the word has no power at all. Winter is but a brisk breeze, longed-for, recalled fondly as an excuse to wear adorably fuzzy sweaters and drink ourselves silly during toasty parties with others of our kind.

Summer? Summer, recalled during the I-think-my-eyeballs-are-frozen depths of blue-aired winter, is a skin-kissed dream of dappled sunlight and freshly mown lawns and not the stay-on-your-side-of-the-bed-there’s-not-enough-talcum-powder-in-the-world experience sure to come…

We forget the seasons, each and every time.

And are therefore continually surprised.

By birds. In trees.

The birds have returned. Next week the last of the snow may – or may not! – disappear. Not far behind that will be the buds on the trees and crocuses pushing up through the grateful earth.

We are eager. We are giddy. And we are ready to expose our limbs to the public.

I mean it, guys. I’m going to take off my coat eventually.