The First Brown Thrasher

The brown thrasher splashed in the bird bath yesterday as if he were having the most glorious time. He hopped up on the edge, sat there a few seconds as he looked all around, then flopped back in to splash again. He just couldn’t get enough water play. I watched him several minutes fascinated by his auburn feathers and speckled chest but most particularly his joy in splashing water. When he flew away to dry in a nearby camellia bush I noticed how, even wet, he looked so regal. I wonder where he came from and why he doesn’t stay here except during nesting season. He is the Georgia bird, after all, and we are in Georgia, albeit almost as far south as one could go. We wondered at breakfast why at least his children wouldn’t stay with us. But every year when the babies learn to fly, off the whole family goes to other regions.

Purple iris are blooming under the maple tree. The white ones have bloomed and left, like prophetic angels preparing us for the purple royalty.

A squirrel fusses loudly about some affront. Cardinals cheerfully sing and titmice do their chirping thing as they flit back and forth to the feeders. Red, the turtle, has been for a visit on the porch. More than once we’ve driven into the carport to find red eyes of a possum looking back at us. The mulberry tree is bright with hundreds of green berries and the birds are having a mulberry festival. As we do every year, we find great joy in watching birds, sometimes a dozen at a time, flock in and out of the loaded branches. But usually the squirrels, too, would have come by now to start their acrobatic feeding on the berries. Are they waiting for the green fruit to turn purple?

I watched from the front porch as Charles cut dead wood away from the hibiscus so its green leaves can grow unimpaired. Later, its blooms of peach, watermelon red, and even yellow will inspire us.

Along the outside of the back porch tubs and buckets hold new plantings of herbs: mint, rosemary, thyme, lavender, and sage. Charles has planted a wee garden toward the green barn: squash, peppers, sweet potatoes and okra. There’s something so encouraging and hopeful about a spring garden. New beginnings! A fresh start!

The sun goes behind a cloud and a light rain scents the earth.

Everywhere I look I’m reminded of The Resurrection. From the brown thrasher to the new garden, from the purple iris to the mulberry tree, everything is waking up and shouting “He is risen! He is risen indeed!”

James 1:17: Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.