Anticipation
BY TONY COOK, EDITOR
Outside my kitchen window a daffodil has been growing since early February. A bud has appeared at the top of the stalk—a swelling of yellow inside a papery light-brown wrapper. For two weeks I have observed the bud, wondering whether the warmth and sunlight of an unusually mild winter will pull it open. That would be a welcome glimpse of spring, but a premature flowering that would almost certainly be withered by the cold that is sure to return. I hope the blossom remains inside its wrapper for a while longer.
Every morning, cardinals visit the slope where the daffodil grows. They come by the dozens—more than I have ever seen together in one place before. Hopping about, pecking at some unseen bit of sustenance that inhabits the cold earth, the birds present a colorful display of natural beauty. Is any red more vivid than the feathers of a cardinal against frost or snow? Of the many birds living on our hillside around the year—among them wild turkeys, crows, robins, bluejays, woodpeckers—the cardinals of winter are my favorites.
During my afternoon walks around the neighborhood, I have noticed a growing volume of birdsong for the past several weeks. In deep winter, the early-dark days of January, only the wind's whistles and howls keep me company as I move along. The denuded trees sometimes thrash about as if trying to free themselves from their stubbornly planted roots. Now, on the cusp of spring, the trees still wave their branches in the cold winds. But the movements seem less violent, more anticipatory. From within the groves I hear the birds singing as they begin their time of nesting and creating new generations.
Gazing across the open valley, over downtown Morgantown toward the hills west of the Monongahela, I see rich orange and purple hues rimming the deep blue of the winter late-afternoon skies. The sun is not yet strong enough to set the sky ablaze. The orange is that of fresh fruit, not fire. The purple is that of a morning-glory blossom, not a midwinter twilight. As the sky darkens into evening, white clouds reflect the warm colors and appear as painted pillows floating just above the still-resting earth.
Winter slips away. It has not been unkind to us this year, and we will not remember it.
Welcome, spring. Your time has come. Bring abundant, precious life back to these hills. I am ready to breathe the sweet fragrances of your rebirth.
T.S.C.