It's Seasonal

The pussy willows, white and black, are showing, leading me to think that Spring herself may be on her way to our mountains.

Thursday was a beautiful day -- so warm that I left the doors open to the breezes and moved the snow shovel from the front porch to the back  of  the house.


In the pastures, the cows and calves lay on their sides, soaking up the sun, while birds flitted busily from tree to tree;

The last of the ice has melted from the road and after a winter of huddling by the fire, I'm wanting to do everything -- reorganize drawers and closets, polish silver, clean up the winter-weary garden, finish the unfinished projects, and start some new ones. 

It's like the nesting urge pregnant women get in the last weeks before delivery -- deciding that Now might be a good time to wax the floor and move all the furniture around. 

Outside, I see that the birds are beginning to pair up and check out the empty birdhouses.

Which leads me to wonder . . .  at one time did humans, like birds and most wild things, give birth mainly in the Spring? It makes sense -- food and warmth would be more abundant making a better environment for a newborn.

So when I begin to think about Spring cleaning, is is a primal memory stirring? Am I reenacting prehistoric nesting urges?

It's something to think about as I shove the furniture around...