The grackles have returned.
This morning I watched two move between the ground and the box elder tree, the sun seeming to electrify the birds’ iridescent black and blue feathers.
Xero took note of several others strutting in the side yard, flipping over leaves and cocking one eye to the ground in a search for food.
They come a few days late this year, possibly deterred by a harsh winter, but are a welcome sight.
There are grackles in other trees as well. I see them in small towns along U.S. 40 during an out-and-back ride past Cambridge City. Grackles and redwing blackbirds with their sing-song voices. And, in the fields, killdeer skim above corn stubble peeking above the melting snow, like a face in need of a shave. It’s a desperate cry from the killdeer, a high-pitched warning, but a welcome sound.
Ditches that recently held waist-deep snow now carry runoff past fields where puddles reflect the brightness of the day. I ride past crossroads that lead straight and out of sight. To my right is teasel the color of old binder twine. As I take in everything around me, simple, rhythmic guitar notes begin in my head, Art Garfunkel’s 1975 version of The Waters of March, a song I carry tirelessly for miles.
The birds. The melting snow. The changing landscape. The water-filled ditches. They are reminders of the season. Of winter not quite willing to yield. Of spring still too early to take control.
But the changes are unmistakable.
Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing,
A cock, a quail, the promise of spring.
The waters of March are here. The first migratory birds have returned. The sun slants at a noticeably different angle. It’s a good day for a long ride. It’s a good day to be alive.
Road bike: 50.80 miles — Henry and Wayne counties
