Like some tendril of a rivulet easing down a mountainside, bird-sound is returning. Just little chirps here and there as small birds dither in the Japanese maple across the street.
Yesterday, beyond a mostly-curtained window, I saw a squirrel, high-high on a delicate tree branch, nibbling on barely-formed buds. How they keep their footing on such a precarious perch beats me, but they do it every spring, sometimes hanging upside down as they stretch and reach and munch on brand new morsels.
In the aluminum gutter that lies flush to the porch roof, I can hear a bird scratching for some nibble or building block.
It's all very small just now. It would be too much to say that winter is gone.
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