Every winter the crows fall silent. Someone said they do, indeed, migrate, but no one seems to know why, or specifically where. Maybe to Aunt Ruth's in Brighton. Who knows.
But some time in mid-to-late January I open the door to see if the weather is still there (one never knows, with winter) and, like today, I am greeted with an early morning symphony from the far woods.
And it's okay.
I think sometimes we have conscious or unconscious marker points in our weather/personal calendar, and this is one for me. The next one will be getting to the last day of February. My dad always said if you could make it that far, spring was on the way. Ironically, he died on the last day of February.
Can't believe it's been nearly 44 years.
But the sky is bright blue, the wind is whipping the tall narrow ash trees behind the house into a frenzied swaying dance, and the crows are back.
And it's very okay.