I’m still a quarter mile from the marsh when I hear them, the red-winged blackbirds. The males sing conk-la-ree, the last note sharp and rising, the females answering with chack-chack-chack in applause.
My approach alarms them. A male darts from the reeds to the top of a young, budding maple and continues its interrupted serenade.
The sun glints off the pond’s waters. The winter-bleached cattails glow golden in its late afternoon light.
A pair of mallards, fresh from my dreams, floats in slow circles near the far shore.
I stand on the hilltop, glad as day to be here, drinking in the sights and the oh-so-welcome song.