Honk if You Like Spring

Not until the end of this past week was I able to come up for air and relax outside. With the dog, of course. Maisie and I took one of our longer walks down to the river, where it meanders under bridges and roadways, with plenty of green space and paths alongside for bikers, runners and walkers. A few miniature islands and peninsulas add visual perks for us and cool perches and nesting spots for birds.

My week had buzzed, so I sought peace and quiet – and how Mother Nature belly laughed! She used the Canada geese. They’re courting and nesting now, and stake out real estate on these little bars and banks with which to convince their lady loves that they’re husband material.

One little island had five Canada geese on it, their long black necks sticking up from the brush like periscopes. Even I could tell that this was two geese too many. From the center of it all one goose lowered his head like a half-back, his shoulders spread and braced for the impact and charged, honking like an air raid siren. Mr. Encroacher ducked and charged and honked likewise and they kind of pushed each other. The center island goose prevailed and, by chasing the other out into the water, created a DMZ.

Meanwhile, another incursion was met and rebuffed on the opposite side of the little patch of dirt and brush. Lots more honks from cheerleaders in the water. 0ur walk was punctuated by the trumpeting and the chirruping of birds of all kinds.

Like Macbeth’s witches, three cormorants huddled on some limbs overlooking the water, and having adjusted their black capes, remained silent.

Spring had another surprise – well, not really a surprise, but a reminder. Maisie was wandering around, sniffing what appeared to be amazing sniffs, and failed to see a small silvery dog approach, clearly very lame but poking around as best it could. His owner was nearby, watching. Tobey, a poodley mix, was recovering from a recent stroke and this was one of his first forays out; she reveled that he was doing, motivated perhaps by those self-same smells as held Maisie in thrall.

Julie, we’ll call the owner, shared that Tobey was about 12 or 13 when she’d adopted him, a senior rescue. She’d had him for three years when the stroke left part of his left side paralyzed. Other than the bum left leg, I only noticed a little droopiness on the left side of his mouth, but I didn’t have time to ask if that affected his eating – she was concerned to get Tobey back to the stroller she’d brought along before he used up all his strength.

As Maisie and I continued our circuit I thought about the love of life and the will to stay part of it, smells, honks, crazy mating games and all. I thought about my mom’s recent fall and recovery, her will to get back to the business of living, going where she wants to when she wants to. And I thought about Tobey, at age 16, at least as eager to get his nose into the dirt as my mother is to get close to the sweet earth of her garden. In spite of the pain, the awkwardness, and the inevitable tiredness.

Yes, I thought as I left the park, spring honks and sniffs and twitters with living, and what wonderful music that is.