In My Ohio

On the Charming Specter of the Bluebird courtesy of Google Images
Darren C. Demaree
I have been seeing birds out of the corner of my eye all week.

I will look out the window or towards the ravine a ways down from my house, or down the street while on a walk with my family, there! A bird. I’d swear it flew right by my head. All week long it’s been like this.

Obviously this means that spring is working itself up into proper fervor and sooner than later we are going to be accompanied by the best of nature.

It’s not the burst of colors from the flowers I like best, or the many jokes I will get to tell about all the teenagers that work at the Dairy Queen getting each other pregnant. What I like best is how bold the local birds become.

They knew this was coming before we did, and it seems to have meant so much more to them than it means to us. Some of them left their home so that they could return right now. It’s a celebration that does more than remove the cobwebs for a bird’s nest, which leads to eggs, and even more song.

So, when a bluebird buzzes past the thick rim of my glasses I take it as an acknowledgement that is my turn to join the dance of what is coming next. What is next ghost bluebird, besides the light madness of your visiting me at the least expected time?

For my playful part, I will start again to write some silly children’s poems, try to get my children to laugh as the weather begins to properly warm them in preparation to the manic stretches they will undertake all around our neighborhood. When I hear the good trail of their voices circling me, I will know that I am on to something. When they flap their arms in the same path as my mystic blue flash, my smile will approach the size of the watermelon we are sure to buy on our next store visit.

I’m going to write poems about the first time the warm water leaves the hose and about how the genuine pain of the first skinned knee of the season really means that the healing of the land has also begun. I want to write poems where I am a dragon and every puddle is enough to keep me at bay.

I want to do my part to nod back to the visiting birds that have recently arrived. If that can involve a few verses about an excellent burp, then more power and exuberance to us all, and the next gurgle of self can be followed by laughter.

I am going to almost see that bird again tomorrow. It’s going to make me duck like it’s a fat bomber type of bird. My wife will laugh at me. When she catches her breath again, then we will begin to lay a full bag of seed all around our house. I will leave a trail of it from my pocket, and surely that trail will lead you to some ice cream treats, so I can make more jokes about Midwestern Dairy Queens and how every folk song should end with one of their employees losing their virginity next to frozen cake with birds frosted on the top of it.