What is the comfort in the return to something familiar? Why does it feel that good to return to what we know, what we like, what is comfortable? Perhaps we are returning, in spirit or flesh, to where we were happiest.
Spring is a return, a happy return, to what we like, what we know will be pleasant, what we remember as being exciting—creeks and frogs, buds and grass, exploration along trails abandoned since last fall, save for four-legged travelers. And perhaps it explains the excitement and pleasure in another return, that of numerous songbirds who once again have chosen our yard, our tree, our box on a field post to start anew with nests and chicks and the whole propagation of the species.
The return of birds now dominates the conversation of at least the folks I hang around with. A friend calls daily to report new sightings—a loon, killdeer, bluebird and oriole. The sightings turn competitive. Who sees what first? Through it all there’s comfort in the normalcy of migration. For what if the birds didn’t return?
But somehow in all the comfort there’s a little irritation, a sticker in the stock, for birds not easily identified suddenly appear and just as suddenly flit away. It drives me crazy.
I came around the corner on a woodland trail the other day and half a dozen rust-colored birds danced away through the leafless branches. Rust-colored and 6 to 8 inches long is all I could gather. And now I wonder: Veery? Brown thrush? No matter what, they returned. They were here. I found comfort in that.