Meadowlark

Usually, about this time of year, the meadowlark returns. With its throaty call, the lark promises that spring is coming soon. This year, however, the song of the lark has remained absent. I realized this the other day when I awoke from a dream in which I watched a female meadowlark build her nest. Winter is, of course, not over, but we've had some days in the 50s, and the robins are settling in—I heard them scolding the cat yesterday as she wandered beneath one of their nesting shrubs. I think the lark should be back. But, if he is not perched on my fence post, where is he?

Cornell University calls the meadowlark a "bird of open country," which is probably why I like him so much. And what is more open than the Parowan Valley? So, Ellen and I went out to the Valley to find the lark this morning. We stopped to listen at some hay fields, empty but for the sagging wheel lines: There was nothing but the sound of a few crows. We went on to the unplowed country, full of sage and rabbit-brush: Nothing but crows. Does the meadowlark know something that I do not? Has spring been postponed?