We made it! This week, we officially crossed over from winter into spring, a rite of passage that’s always worth celebrating.
And while that passage means different things in different parts of the country, here on the Northern Plains, it means BABIES.
Sure enough, they’ve started arriving right on time. Out in the pasture, the grass is still stubby and gray with only the barest hint of green (courtesy of the quick dash of snow that fell last week) but the brand-new calves don’t seem to mind. At only a few days old, they are already bucking and playing, chasing each other and their mamas.
The wind is chilly, but they don’t seem to mind that either. As long as their bellies are full of warm milk and they can find a place to pile together when they need a nap, they will grow strong and stout in no time.
My little flock of sheep still has at least two more weeks until their lambs begin to arrive. In preparation, the ewes have had their yearly haircuts, and their winter’s wool is sitting in bags ready to be skirted and sent to the mill. Freshly shorn, it is easy to see who is probably carrying twins (or triplets or quintuplets — my newest flock members are Finnsheep, a breed famous for having “litters” of lambs, unlike nearly every other kind). So, while there aren’t baby lambs running around just yet, looking at some of my ewes’ giant bellies, it feels like the babies are here — because, in a way, they are. They just aren’t quite ready to face the elements.
The chickens have started laying eggs in earnest again after the winter slowdown. Since we don’t have a rooster, those eggs technically aren’t babies, but I have a few hens who act as though they’d like them to be. They sneak around the barn searching for cozy, secret spots to start their nests, hoping I won’t collect the eggs.
This morning, I spotted a male pheasant conspicuously strutting back and forth in front of the coop like he was ready to take on fatherhood by storm. After a quick Google search, I discovered his bravado was not misplaced — he could, in fact, father some half-chicken, half-pheasant children — which is intriguing enough to have me considering leaving a few secret nests alone.
Meanwhile, the wind is full of birdsong, and the bushes and trees are full of nest-building and egg-laying, as well. I go out to feed sheep as afternoon shifts to evening and I can hear robins chatting loudly, mourning doves sighing out long coos and even the acrobatic arpeggio of a distant meadowlark from the corner of someone’s pasture fence.
The daytime chatter is welcome, but several nights last week, I was awakened by the surprisingly loud duet of two great horned owls coming from the circle of cottonwood trees in front of our house. It was eerie and haunting and went on and on.
Lying awake in the pre-dawn hours, I found myself oddly flattered that owls might be looking to build a nest in our trees. On the other hand, owl parents roosting near a barn and corral that would soon be filled with tiny lambs seemed like a bad idea, even though owls usually prey on much smaller animals. The aforementioned sleep-interrupting noise level was also a good reason not to be disappointed when they decided to look elsewhere for a place to raise their children.
And, of course, I can’t forget my plant babies. Most of the prairie plants are still sleeping, but there is a growing collection of egg cartons full of dirt and seeds piled on top of my refrigerator where the warmth of the motor and some sprinkles of water are reminding them that they are not meant to stay tiny forever.
How lucky are we that spring comes every single year? What a delight to find the earth throwing a giant party in celebration of birth, and as we throw off our worn faded winter garb, it feels a little like a rebirth for us too.
