“Birds are singing!” An announcement on the Maine Gardening group this morning sent me to the back porch to listen. Long wool sweater, the kind 70 year old writers who drink bourbon and hole up in their dark library to Awrite wear, would keep me semi-warm. It’s old and comfortable and has pockets I can lose my glasses in. I pulled it snug against me, refilled my coffee mug, and stepped outside. Oh dammit; scared the mourning doves off the feeder and into the maple trees.

Leaning against the post, I sip my coffee and listen to silence. Nothing. And still nothing. Finally, something like 45 long seconds later, a crow caws in the distance but is drowned out by a jake brake on route one. Wrapped in my heavy wool sweater, hands warm around my coffee, I look up at the thermometer. No freaking wonder my bare feet are cold. It’s 10°F. One chickadee belts out a “phoebe” and a blue jay squawks once as I head for the door. The songbirds aren’t singing here yet but it won’t be long.