There’s a trio of crazy chipmunks scooting across the deck outside my office window like kids chasing each other for the joy of it. The slutty robin who nests every year under the deck by my office window is rebuilding her fraying nest in between pecking at the wind chimes I’ve hung from the rafters – it’s always windy there and I don’t think she cares for the music. Last year she managed to pop out three broods.
When I’m outside, she sits in the dappled willow nearby and watches, but she’s never far away. At least she’s learned there’s no need to dive bomb me when I go to the plastic bin to retrieve my tools. Surely it can’t be the same robin returning after all these years? Must be some sort of genetic memory that keeps them coming back to the same three or four nests every spring, renovating them and raising multiple families. The fledglings make an incredible racket when it’s close to feeding time. And they’re picky, too. The freshly dug worms from the flower beds are a family favourite. No need to dig around in the wilted lawn for food.
But even the greedy starlings and nasty grackles won’t touch the leftover corn and seed mixture I’d stored in a metal pail in the garage all winter. It’s obviously not up to their gourmet standards. Even the garden mice don’t bother, so I guess it will get pitched into the compost.
When the sun is out – oh, how we’ve longed for warmth through those weeks and weeks of dreary winter – I’m drawn to my work gloves and old hiking boots. Thoughts of tired muscles and sore joints are far from my mind. Even if I just stand there admiring the clean slice of dirt as I edge the perennial beds, I feel content. The rich, warming scent of newly dug soil that’s rich with decaying leaves and crawly things reminds me that life is not all about sitting at a keyboard and cranking out work, no matter how pressing the deadline.