The Birds Return

“I hear you!” Mom stands on the deck, looking out at the patchy brown grass and receding snow. “Where are you?”
It’s the first robin. We mark them all down on the calendar above the handwashing sink at Farmstead each year—plotting the return of the birds.
Some of the first to move through the farm, following the waterways north, are the trumpeter swans. Always so impressively big, their white forms fly low over the barnyard, wings audibly beating. The honking cries are unmistakable and distinct from the cries of Canada geese in their little clusters, sometimes doggedly heading north, sometimes veering in other directions. It’s too early yet for the massive V-formations high above the clouds, but we know that they will be coming soon.
Evening chores and the “squank” of the woodcock cuts the dampness as males stake their claims before the females arrive. It won’t be long before the drumming begins for grouse and turkeys as they too mark out territory.
Monday chores and cleaning out the mucky bedding in the turkey coop from the spring flooding, and I catch a glimpse of a shy mourning dove, it’s wing beats squeaking out its surprise call as it escapes into a tree at my approach. In the old sugar maples, branch tips quickening, a red-winged blackbird warbles and squawks. He won’t nest in those trees, but they offer one of the highest vantage points near the little creek that runs through the homestead.
The sandhill cranes return—two nesting pairs. They survey both the north and south fields, calling raucously. The very first of the crew to arrive staked out the only bare spot in the pasture, sitting on it mournfully. But now with the rain, the snows are clearing away, and there is more open ground for them to hunt for whatever tasty bits cranes like to eat. In the fall, they were my chore shadows, following behind to see if I just might have dropped any chicken feed for them.
But the robins seemed tardy. Over a week ago, I’d heard they were sighted in Ashland, then saw them in Hayward, but still no sign of the treasured robins on the farm until this morning. Perhaps they too were waiting for the rains with its promise of worms, mud, and the awakening earth.
“Three snows on the robin’s tail,” I reminded a guest. Some folks have heard this old country saying before, but to many it’s new. The theory is that once you see the robin, there are three snows left that spring. Last year, I quit counting at five snows, but last spring was also quite exceptional. Hopefully this year spring really is moving in the right direction as we make our way through the awkward but anticipated mud season.
A crew of juncos pass through, their little gray-and-white bodies bobbing in the gravel parking lot as they search for grit. Soon they’ll notice the sunflower seed feeder I have out for the charming chickadees and gather below to gobble up anything that may have fallen to the ground.
All this migratory movement is an epic process as birds leave their winter quarters and think towards raising the next generation. How fitting that this week’s needle felting class was making little robins! Everyone was happy to be seeing robins again and got to take home their very own wooly version.
Have you been watching the birds return? They are sure signs of spring, of the changes in the land, and of the awakening of nature for another year of growing. All the animals are quite excited about spring coming on the farm, including my chickens, who are certainly dreaming of their summer mobile coops out on the pasture.
I wonder what new birds will arrive this week. I’ll certainly be watching, enjoying the new calls in the morning air, the signs of fresh colors flitting by. Will you? See you down on the farm sometime.