The Indecisiveness of Spring on the Great Plains

Spring on the Great Plains is always an adventure. After months of grey, isolating skies, the sun arrives with bright blue heavens in tow, signaling to the world that spring has sprung. Canadian geese fly high overhead, their raucous calls echoing for hours on end, waking up the world below. Tufts of grass shoot up, the bright green enticing the robins and sparrows, who just suddenly appear, fixing up their nests from last year as they prepare to roost. The bunnies race from shoot to shoot, munching on the magical smorgasbord of delicacies, fattening themselves up after a long Hawkwinter of leftovers. The raccoon and hawks hang out in the trees, waiting for an opportunity to break their own winter’s fast. The dog barks at the raccoon, curious about the possibility of a new friend, while the cats practically salivate while watching the sparrows build a nest just outside the picture window.

And the writer laughs. She knows that the sun has a lot of new areas to cover during this time, so it will disappear for days, leaving its 80-degree afternoons to fend off arctic winds that swoop in with thick clouds and angry winds, furious as how easily they have been replaced. It’s not yet time to put away the thick blankets or wool socks, but soon. Soon we will replace the winter clothes with sunscreen and mosquito repellant, spend hours listening to audiobooks while pretending to drive a hotrod back and forth over the grass, sink our hands deeply into the soft earth and revel in the dirt caught under our fingernails instead of immediately trying to wash it away.

But first…first, we must survive the indecisiveness of spring.