The geese are coming home.
Yesterday found me in bed with the cold and fever I’d avoided so well all winter. Time couldn’t fly fast enough, it seemed to me, and the light at the end of my tunnel was the dose of Tylenol I would allow myself before bed.
But as I sat in the evening, watching dusk turn to dark outside my window and marveling at the simple beauty of tree branches against the sky, I saw something in the distance. My heart skipped a beat, so excited was I. “Ryan! The geese! They’re coming home!”
We both watched them fly in their V, listening closely for the sound of their honking — which, in October is so ominous and leaves me feeling abandoned, left to face the worst of winter alone; but in March is the herald of such hope.
This morning I’m up and around some, feeling a bit better. Of course, I can’t tell if the spurt of energy is due to wellness or simply the fact that I know. I know it’s coming.
I cracked a window to let in some fresh air in exchange for my germ-infested oxygen, and when I stuck my head out to smell the newness of the day, I swear that I smelled Robin’s eggs and crocus blossoms. And best of all, as I sat near that open portal to spring, I heard once again the bearers of hope as they winged through the sky. I swear I heard them saying, “Return to your rest, oh my soul.”
For behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have already appeared in the land; the time has arrived for pruning the vines, and the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land.