I know spring is coming...

I know spring is coming because the snow has melted down around the solar yard light chargers, and the sun has wormed its way through the clouds for a few days now, so the farmyard is a’glow with soft halos of colored light at night.

I know spring is coming because the peacocks are starting to strut their stuff. It’s hilarious to watch last summer’s baby boys fan their itty bitty tails (they won’t get the long train feathers until their third year) and practice the peacock prance. The prance is a riot of color & sound—males fan their tail feathers and vibrate them (shake, shake, shake a tailfeather…uh huh…uh huh), along with a set of rust-colored feathers on the outer edge of each wing (the photo is Francoise from behind, doing the dance), to make a purcussive, almost purring, sound. While they’re doing this, they high-step backwards in miniscule increments. If a peahen approaches, they’ll high-step forward toward her, or, if they’re feeling lucky, charge her suddenly. All peacocks, males & females, fan their tails as an alarm or warning (like their turkey cousins) but only the randy boys do the prance. They do it very rarely in winter, and then only briefly, but I’ve seen several dancers lately, so things must be heating up peacock-wise.

I know spring is coming because Snowball, the white barn cat, has been boldly stalking the compost bucket on the back porch and is looking a bit rotund. Kitties may be in the offing, although it’s really too early in the year for kitties to have a good chance.

I know spring is coming because I’m starting to feel human again—less bear-like, less desperate to scarf carbs until I’m in a stupor, less convinced I need to let my hair grow (ALL of it) as insulation. I’m increasingly still asleep when the sun comes up and still awake when it goes down.

I know spring is coming because the barn pigeons are pairing up, and if I walk close to the barn, I hear the most amazing, echo-y pigeon music.

I know spring is coming because students are cutting class on sunny days, they’re antsy, and their attention spans have dwindled from about 11 minutes at the beginning of the semester, to a few seconds, and then only if I’m at the front of the room doing a gymnastics routine while balancing spinning glass plates on an overhead projector pointer. In a pink sequined spandex leotard and black fishnets. While singing “RESPECT.” Blindfolded.