Yesterday evening, the first flight of the year, the John the Baptist of flies, a voice from the desert of the cold, was buzzing around me, prophesying warmth and rebirth as I sat reading by the fireside.
But, really, who or what is such an insect foretelling? What strange fever does it cause?
I accept that the answer lies in molecules and heating degree days, the position of the sun, the average temperature, the inner timeclocks of the bulbs and the buds, but the ecology of spring is so miraculous, the science of the transformation too complex, too amazing.
Spring should be the sum of its parts, should be countable. Spring is an accumulation, and once enough pieces of spring have been gathered, then it becomes visible and tangible and believable.
Still, I want something more. I want the prophet to tell me something I can't see or know. I want something that I can not gather and hold, a crazy spring fever that makes me dizzy and too warm, blurs my vision and makes me weak and lazy and hungry, sets me adrift in nameless emotion in anticipation of the impossible.
This is Bill Felker with Poor Will’s Almanack. I’ll be back again next week with notes for the third week of early spring. In the meantime, be careful of prophetic flies. Unbridled Spring fever can really get to you.
