I am tired of winter by now, tired of the cold, tired of the greyness, wetness and emptiness, the fierce winds and snow. I want to feel some warmth upon my body, I yearn for the sunlight upon my face, for flowers, insects and colours ... I want to enjoy the outdoors again, walk barefoot through the dewy grass, I want to be overwhelmed with the spicy scent of the lilac in the gardens, I long for a bird's song in the morning and nakedness at night ... I long for spring.
And I think it is just around the corner ... the flowers can hardly wait to pop open and sink us in an ocean of colours and scents ... I can feel the change in the atmosphere. The wind is becoming milder, the sun is getting warmer and I'm starting to get the slightest notion of the almost forgotten sounds of spring – the buzzing of bees and flies, the wild noise of mating cats, kids laughing, playing outside.
Yet there is one sound almost tantamount to spring – being so distinct, so dear and familiar to me: the sound of the cranes going north!
Last weekend I had this year's first sighting of these sublime waterfowls, heralds of the spring. The Eurasian crane, "grus grus" – how I love this name ever since I first learned it as a kid – flocks and flocks of these beautiful bluish-grey birds flying past, returning from their African winter quarters ... hundreds of them gathering high above my head, circling, spiralling up to even higher altitudes, reforming their mighty triangles in the sky before elegantly proceeding on their journey ... necks held straight, wings stretched wide ... all grace and beauty.
The air was filled with their spine-tingling call, as if they wanted to drive the winter away, the noise echoing in my winter-weary soul all night long ... comforting me with the auspicious, much longed-for certainty: spring ... yes ... soon!!
Here's a poem by Marilyn Peretti, dedicated to these great birds – my beloved cranes:
Ardour
This ardour has flown in so recently,
entered this life of years
after expectation had worn thin like glass,
yet now has nested tightly in my chest
like some organ that insists on pumping oxygen,
forcing its way through,
to the point of improving vital signs:
these widespread wings
of common cranes,
that lift and push, lift and glide,
over my head, over my trees, across my earth,
pulling this temporal being
up into their cool orbit,
entrusting me with wings.
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