The Prairie Spy

Alan “Lindy” Linda

Standing on the outside deck, first thing in the morning: Spring in the country surrounds me.

The sounds prove that winter is gone, and warm spring has arrived. There is: The sound of turkey gobblers gobbling, far off, hidden deep in the oak woods. Mrs Robin is ferrying sticks to her nest beneath the second floor patio. Mrs Phoebe is working away up in the her nest in the window up at the south-facing peak of the roof

  Red Wing Blackbirds are trilling away, which is kind of new here. They mostly stick to wetlands, where there are lots of willows and cat tails.  Mrs Wren happily singing at least a dozen different and wonderful tunes while she fills her little house back up with all the little twigs and sticks that I knocked out of there a couple of weeks ago.

Below the house, the pothole is  filled up with fog, and filled up with the sound of toads happily thawed out and croaking. 

 All the mess found under the melted snow has been raked up and put away.

So much for the good stuff.

It just rained, so the grass has grown about a foot, and needs mowing. I forgot to get new blades for the lawn mower, so I’m faced with sharpening the old ones, which are the worse for wear after close encounters with various rocks and sticks.

The apple trees are demanding to be pruned, stating: “You remember what happens, right? When you don’t prune us? Right? We load up with too many apples and our arms break, and you feel bad. Right?

Yeah, right. I begin looking once again for some pruning shears, of which I have several, of which none are showing themselves.

Last year’s flowers are dead and draggled in their pots on the front step. Someone needs to go to and buy some. I would, but once I’m faced with all the choices of  different and beautiful flowers in the florist’s greenhouse, I either buy one of everything.

Or I freeze in my tracks, and wait for someone else to do it.

Ah, spring is here.

Is that a wood tick?