For 40 years I walked back and forth each day along The Path from my home in Easton, MA, to my place of work, Stonehill College. And this is the day each year when the first red-winged blackbirds appeared in the trees along Queset Brook. They would haunch forward, lift their wings, and flash their gaudy epaulets. I could set my calendar by the first throaty craaack. The birds know the date as well as I do.
The blackbird's return has been going on for millennia, and will continue far longer than the four score years or so allotted me. A good day then to remember the endless and creative cycle of death and renewal that is the theme of this week's Musing.