Where I live in the Midwest, the red cardinals begin singing in mid-February, no matter what the weather. That’s when my spring hunger begins. The redbirds’ sweetly hopeful songs bring it on. Migrant robins return. My yearning cranks up. By March, garden seeds are on display in the hardware store while hoes, rakes and spades are up front. That gets me salivating.
When I lived in the country I would take lots of March and April walks. Each day I would find some new evidence of spring’s approach and arrival. I kept careful records of its progress in my journal.
Entries looked like this: “March 22: Warm night, first spring peepers heard. March 24: First hepaticas blooming in the ravine. April 2: Balmy evening. Whippoorwills back and beginning to call. April 9: Some sunshine. Trillium and bloodroot flowering; behind the house, first morel mushrooms. April 14: Sunny day. Saw first indigo bunting in the pasture. May 10: Cool, wet day. Chestnut-sided warblers stranded in the midst of their migration, feeding in cedars. May 16: Wild pink azaleas blooming in Mad Dog Hollow.”