The north wind is wrestling with a warm front, as gray clouds jockey for position. The air is electrified with a cacophony of birds. Like the dissonant noise before a symphony, the musicians warm up. Winged sections flutter overhead. Dozens of sporadic flocks moving, migrating, chirping hello to their southern cousins as they hurry past, using their invisible GPS.
Across the river, the audience of one hundred foot pines and bare armed cypress stands and waits. A few have dressed in their early chartreuse buds of welcome for the traveling orchestra. The resident mockingbird sits silently on the fence, waiting for his cue. The cheep of the local cardinal couple announces their morning fly by. No seed in the feeder, they move on with a titter.
For a moment the air stills with anticipation. The hawk conductor has spread his wings. He sores on the updraft. Slowly the music of spring begins to rise, wooing the blooms and chlorophyll. A fish jumps. The slap of tail to water creates a percussive ripple.
The north wind tickles the hair on my neck. A chill runs down my arm. I must leave the porch swing and my winter paradise to fill the dryer and make the beds. Snowbirds of the human variety are coming to call.