Some things should not change. Clocks must find their way back to 12:00. Birthdays insist upon recognition. And certain small but important rituals ask to be kept.
I moved into my prairie home the week of Thanksgiving in 1991. Each spring since, I’ve marked in my journals (and now my blog) the arrival of the first bluebird of the year, returning to my swatch of Montana ground after wintering somewhere to the south. It is a modest observance, but a steady one, usually unfolding in mid-March.
This year, in my conspicuous absence, my brother-in-law Terry kept the tradition alive. On Sunday, March 22, he spotted the first bluebird. He even managed a photograph of a male inspecting the bluebird box along my back fence, which I’m sharing today.
Welcome to spring!
—Mitchell
Hegman
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