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Spring is springing in this neck of the woods.

Robin Coyle, aka Peeping Tom.

Robin Coyle, aka Peeping Tom.

The birds have a dance party going on in our backyard today. The robins (no, not me and my multiple personalities) are doing shots at the birdbath. Three are using the fountain as a Jacuzzi. A randy mourning dove is chasing some poor girl and he hasn’t picked up on her birdy language that she just isn’t interested. Our yard is like a bird speed-dating session with a lot of flirting, drinking, and carousing. Club Med at Spring Break doesn’t get more action than this.

The daffodil bulbs in the garden pushed tender shoots through the soil to check the weather. They liked what they found and decided to lift their frilly yellow petticoats over their heads. After last week’s frost, a few of the less hardy plants in the garden understand what George Costanza meant by “shrinkage.” But in today’s warm sun, they are raising their plant-y faces to the sky and singing, “I Will Survive.”

All ready for the Easter parade.

All ready for the Easter parade.

The trees are celebrating this glorious spring day by wearing their pink bonnets while bees hum a summer tune in their ear. I love this time of year where the days get longer, the nights get stronger than moonshine. Oh wait . . . I can’t use that. Those are the lyrics to “Ventura Highway.” But I do love the longer days and not looking at my watch at 5:30 to see if it is time for bed.

This all makes me a tad nervous though. It is only the end of February and Mr. Winter might just be on a cigarette break. But in the mean time, I think I shall go dig in the garden and look for worms. Hey, I’m a Robin. It is my job.

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