About this time every year I start circling my yard, looking for signs of life. Miss Kitty follows, squeaking her tennis ball. Chester walks with his head near my hand, hoping for an ear rub.
I notice the oak leaves crowded under the roses; the detritus of last years’ vegetable garden; the new gopher tunnels, like veins, meandering under the bird feeders; I wonder, again, what I’m going to do about the Bermuda grass infestation in the iris bed.
And then I hear it. A cardinal trills its spring song. And my mind turns a corner. Winter is loosing its grip. Spring is near. Near.