A long story about not much.

It had rained since the middle of the night, an incessant pouring rain, and all night long the wild spring wind seemed to shake the house. It sounded as though ghosts were rushing through the neighborhood, rattling chains and knocking things over. It sounded like they were drumming on empty barrels and then racing away up the street. I lay awake for a while, worrying. Not about the wind, but about getting older, about time passing, about disease and decay. It sounds foolish, it is foolish, and yet I lay awake letting my thoughts move from one thing to another. I had no personal cause for concern, I don’t know where the worry came from, except that the entire world is on fire at the moment, and in the dark of night the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness against great evil is all-consuming.

I finally fell asleep and dreamt about owls and woke up confused. The next day during a pause in the rain I walked my dog. The sky had a flat yellow twilight glow, though it was only 3 o’clock. A block away fire engines screamed down Main Street, with their sense of panic and urgency, and everyone turned to watch. Crowds of children walking home from school turned and stared at the lights and the noise. Ahead of us, a flock of blackbirds hovered strangely in front of a stop sign: A branch with bright red berries crossed the sign. The birds eating stopsign-red berries didn’t care about the fire truck, as they created a pressing disturbance of their own. Underneath all the noise was a strange waiting stillness. It felt like something would happen, even if it was just the small change of more rain falling or night drawing in. Or spring coming.

The wind picked up again, empty garbage cans rolled around the streets and made Clio crazy. She stopped and startled and then took off like a shot. Her hackles were raised, she refused to go down certain streets and she barked down others. She was in a panic. It struck me as strange that it’s so easy for us to recognize when somebody else’s fears are ungrounded or misplaced. It’s so easy for me to see that Clio is not going to be attacked by a garbage can, and I know that cars are dangerous for her, though she does not. It must be like that with my own worries as well. I’m barking down alleys at shadows, losing sleep over empty cans. Except, of course, everything is worry now, in this country and in this world.

May is a glowing green season where I live, the world is full of Asher Durand light. The days dawn cool and the sun steams out the scents of damp earth and growing things later in the day. And the birds are busy: The level of small fluttering excitement is palpable. But the birds have been busy for weeks now. They sense the change of season before we do — the slight new warmth, the swiftly moving light — they know what’s coming, slowly slowly, but inevitably. And they’ve been getting ready, they’ve been preparing. The fish crows have been gathering in the wintery whitegold early-spring light in the dappled branches of the sycamore, holding their emphatic comical conversations. Making plans. The robins and bluejays have set the tall oak trees on fire, collecting by dozens, scores, making such a noise you could feel it in your bones.

During the pandemic, the world of humans shut down in springtime, and the birds didn’t care at all. They went on with the urgent fervent living of their lives, probably happier that we were around less. It was a hopeful thing, in that dark uncertain time, to hear the birds. And here we are in another dark uncertain time, with chaos a constant, evil seemingly unstoppable, bullies prevailing around the world. There’s something comforting about birdwatching, this year more than most. People are disappointing, but the indigo buntings are singing from the edges of the same field as last year, the ravens are collecting noisily under the same bridge, the goldfinches are chasing each other through the same glowing branches, faster and brighter than the brightest thing.

It’s a comfort until you think about the depth of the darkness and uncertainty, and you know that humans are doing their level best to put a stop to the brightness. To dig it up and tear it down and squeeze whatever money out of it they can. I guess there’s a depressing predictability about humans, too: our greed, our lack of empathy, our disregard for the future of the world we live on. We’re foolish and blind, but the birds probably feel the change we’re making too, before we do. They probably sense the unrest in the world; they sense the corrosion and decay.

Writing this took me down a darker alley than I intended! A middle-of-the-night shadowed alley of worries. However, despite the nagging weight of the times and the sleepless nights, I can’t help but be hopeful right now, when the sun is turning the new leaves into bright green jewels and the birds are singing their tiny hearts out with such ardor. You can never hold back spring. And the birds have more important things to worry about than our human failings, which mean nothing to them but will affect them so much.

For now, the birds are alright. And we’re alright, too, if we find some hope in their bright feathers and their bright eyes and their bright songs. After all, hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. We’re lucky if we can catch hold of some of their beautiful energy and take it with us where we go. As dark as the night of our worries might get, we don’t have much chance of climbing out of it without hope. We can’t fight without hope. I’ve been told many times lately to be less strident in my opinions, but I’m being coached by the fish crows and the blue jays.

We should be grateful to be near to the truly important work of nature that is happening all around us, despite of us. We should accept it as a gift wherever we might find it.