It was a lovely wake-up call, albeit a bit early since the clock reported not quite 4 in the morning. The songbirds paid no heed to the first day on daylight saving time, nor did the bedroom clock, the only one not set ahead an hour.

So the sparrows and finches, the chickadees and doves were in full chorus, their chips and trills and coos welcoming a splendid Sunday that promised Wedgwood blue skies and bright sunshine to melt away the latest snow.

The whole outdoors was an early church service; the hymn was a traditional Gaelic melody:

“Morning has broken like the first morning, blackbird has spoken like the first bird. Praise for the singing. Praise for the morning. Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.”

Lying in bed, I could hear that tune and those words in my mind though my ears heard only the songs of the birds and the dripping of snow off the eaves. It was going to be a fine April morning indeed, even springlike, despite the lingering grip of a seemingly endless winter.

By the time the birds had finished their breakfast of oily, black sunflower seeds – and I, my second cup of coffee – the snow was sliding off the metal roof in splats and splashes onto the back deck.

The wind whipped the sloppy snow off cedar limbs, and the sun crept higher in the sky, urging upwards, as well, the mercury in the outside thermometer.

I stood for the longest time at the kitchen window, watching the birds as they flitted from the trees or pecked at the snowy ground. Red squirrels played chase, and the lone chipmunk brought his scant meal to a big rock farther into the woods. Raucous crows could be heard in the distance, disturbed by a truck spinning through the slush on the road.

Strewn across the snow were shells of striped or black seeds, yellow specks of cracked corn, hunks of stale bread and the crumbs from the bottom of the raisin-bran box. The smorgasbord continued, early breakfast to brunch, and I was the only observer.

“Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early morn; leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.” Tennyson began “Locksley Hall” with those words and followed in his poem with this description I was witnessing:

“In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s breast; in the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest. In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove.”

While I stood still, the new world beyond my windowsill was in full motion. Morning had broken, and the hymn rang like church bells:

“Mine is the sunlight. Mine is the morning born of the one light Eden saw play. Praise with elation, praise every morning, God’s recreation of the new day.”