Twee Springezoidal Nature and Shit, Man

So spring is sort of resoundingly sprung: springily, even. It's 70 outside and the birds are going nuts all over the place, singing and warbling and, in the case of those beloved harbingers of the vernal tides, the redbreasted legends of lore, trying to kill each other messily all over my neighborhood. Well, okay, robins aren't cuckoos, although they are cuckoo, also psychopathic little bastards. I mean, seriously. I always know that this time of year marks that golden week or two when you can see robins fighting to the death like feathered gladiators. It's surprising that any survive to kill again next spring. It's entertaining in a gruesome kind of way, but what always surprises me whenever I start going on (btw ignore the weird comment spam on that post; it just takes too long to delete it bit by bit. Should really do that though. Oh well.) about the generally bloody nature of spring (gotta DIE to be REBORN, sucker) is that this aspect of the calendar year is just not so generally celebrated. One spring I was at a Friends meeting in Chestertown, Maryland and an older lady got up to speak. She said, "When I was a young girl I always dreaded the old ladies who stood up to speak about the spring and the flowers and the birds. Well, now that I'm old, I'd like to talk to you about the spring and the flowers and the birds." It was a good lead in. Mine, which would involve bits of bloody feathers lying around, would also have a good lead, but perhaps not be as, uh, inspirational.

The thing is, though, all that fighting and squawking and egg stealing and snakes waking up from the winter to get hit by cars and so on is inspirational. It's a battle and it's constant and yet, it is rebirth: you've come through the winter, this last terrible March part of winter, beaten and battered and limping, but through and out the other side. Maybe I'll plant a garden again this year after all.