The feeder is up, and the birds have finally arrived. For many long days it hung there in the branches of the mesquite by the pasture fence looking abandoned. Then gradually, one at time here they came.

Once again, it’s the small things. Went on a tour of the yard yesterday with my son, the arborist, and discovered the Mexican Buckeyes are blooming. Delicate little flowers, and another spring joy …

The marie pavia roses are going to need a pruning. But I’m going to let them reveal where the cuts need to come.

The spineless cacti in the beds on either side of the drive are as limp as melted butter. The recent freeze did them no favors. But the peach tree. Oh, my. In a day or two, I do believe it will put a redbud to shame.

I felt like one of the three little pigs last night, and the wolf was at my door. The wind howled, screen doors banged, and chairs rocked on the porch. There was a low moan from the dog run. I expected rain, but none came.

Yesterday, as I sat filling out paperwork, for a dental procedure, my phone flashed on. The assistant who was helping me, said, “Oh, that’s nice,” when she saw the picture of me and my wife, in a warm embrace, on the home screen. I said, “Thanks,” then, after a small pause, added, “She passed away in August.”

It’s always the small things. They make or break things. Relationships. Jobs. Moods.

Changed the sheets, made the bed, took a long walk, and visited my wife’s grave. Yesterday was a good day because I also had a revelation.

I know spring is coming, because I can see the discrete little signs, budding leaves are all around, on the roses and on the trees. But for some reason, the start of the season seems disconsolate,,,

I spent the weekend in the company of friends. Two days. All centered around music and food.

Spring days have a nice feel to them. Chill in the morning, warming in the afternoon, chill at night. I can embark on my day’s gardening, knowing the sun will warm my work, and the evening will bring me peace.

I never really think about how many leaves are on the branches of our big oaks. They just hang there, swaying in the breeze, providing shade and shelter to me and the birds and the cats. Then comes the spring molt.

The sap is rising. My plants, squeezed within an inch of their lives by the icy hand of winter less than two weeks ago, are coming back. Lengthening days are pushing the chill hours of night toward the outer boundaries.

The Sandhill Cranes were flying yesterday. Their distinctive clucking call fell from the sky, but I could never locate the flock as it flew by. They were too high and moving too fast.

I’ve always dressed and acted to a self-image I carry around in my mind. Up until now it’s been relatively ageless, partly because it was based on the reflection I saw in my wife’s eyes.

Went for a short walk this morning. Down the drive, out the gate, and back. It was the Tuesday morning taking out the trash walk. I noticed someone did a lousy job of turning around by my driveway. T

Duck. This is about grief. The recent cold spell put a real freeze on the house, literally and metaphorically. The cold came and it seems as though it never left. There is no warmth in the house at all. Just a dark chill.

Home again. Home again. Made the long slow drive west without incident. I traveled on a road I once disdained as too slow and tortuous.

I went to a high school junior varsity track meet yesterday. My varsity grand-daughter was running to post some times and warm up for district.

Memories are the skeletons of our lives, the things that build the present. Some are good, some are bad, and some are nothing really at all. And interesting enough, with perspective, they move around.