“What day of the week is it?” I ask DW.
“What day do you think it is?” she responds with light sarcasm, accustomed, yet perhaps a little weary of my disconnect.
“It is three days after the first buzzard over our back field, two days after the purple finches joined the juncos at the bird feed, and one day after the house sparrows scouted the nesting boxes, a matter of poor timing for today the violet green swallows have returned.” And adding a bit of conformity: “I had a crown put on a molar yesterday and that was Tuesday. It is Wednesday.”
I haven’t seen the bluebirds around the barns the last week or so, yet I have seen a pair out back, so I hope they have already claimed one of the boxes out there, and that the swallows remain by the barns. And the lean-to has an increased amount of owl scat about the floor but see know owls in the rafters. Perhaps, just perhaps, one is already sitting on eggs in the box we put up for them. The mallards are still hanging out on the pond, despite the frog cacophony that surrounds them.
Everything is early this year, and if I worked real hard at it, I might be able to write off my disorientation by blaming the weather pattern.
I am not Irish. Maybe that’s it.