Signs of Spring

Even the calendar’s statement that it is March cannot quite convince me that this is not one of the first days of Spring. There are tiny catkins on the birch trees; barren branches are surrounded with the faint hint of red, gold and green. Here there is no sound of busy traffic; only the cooing of the morning dove, the liquid call of the first robin, songs of the birds. The only movement is of the breeze through the trees and the unfolding of the grasses; tiny shoots pushing their way up through the moist earth. Crocus and daffodils open their blossoms; radiant jewels in the crisp morning sunlight. Deep from the heart of nature wells the music of promised spring.