The day was beautiful, a perfect promise of spring. Except for slushy clumps here and there, the snow had vanished. In its wake, warming temperatures had begun to pull crocuses and tulips from the ground, and the trees showed the barest tint of color as buds appeared. The most delightful hue of all – that of the first new shoots of grass – graced neighborhood lawns and parks.

It was a day to celebrate new life and new beginnings, but for me it was heavy with sorrow. I had gone to New Jersey soon after my father was hospitalized because of Alzheimer’s disease, and now he was dying. He would pass away a week later.

Some part of me still enjoyed the beauty of the young season, because I knew my father would have enjoyed it. I realized then that whenever I had savored a beautiful sunset, the colors of autumn, or the riotous song of a bird, thoughts of my father had surfaced. He had taught me to love and appreciate nature. If it weren’t for him, I might never have sought out nature or come to enjoy birds.

He could never have been called an advocate or activist, and he couldn’t have told you what a warbler is. He didn’t keep a “life list.” He owned a pair of binoculars that were never used to look at birds. But he was quick to share his observations with me – the comical variations in a northern cardinal’s song or the bold and brassy vocalizations of a blue jay, which for him always signified the cold, crisp days of autumn. He didn’t need to be an environmental advocate or a bird expert to nurture this appreciation in me. He had an artist’s keen eye and ear for observation and never failed to call my attention to nature’s detail.

So, on that beautiful, young spring day, I paid attention.

Squadrons of American robins patrolled the grassy hills of nearby Lenape Park for worms and other invertebrates. Their deep orange-red breasts stood out even from a distance. The moist air vibrated with the liquid notes of red-winged blackbirds, the occasional clear whistle of a tufted titmouse, and the squeaky croaks and rattles of common grackles.

Toward evening I visited a small pond within the park and observed a mute swan as it glided around its domain. That magical hour before sunset created a soft, warm light, turning the swan’s white plumage golden. As the bird swam, it occasionally dipped its beak in the water, and upon raising its head released droplets that caused the water to ripple and reflect upon its body.

I wished my father could have been there to see this ethereal sight; I could almost imagine him describing it to me. Maybe, in a way, he was there with me.

NEWS bird columnist Chris Corio can be reached at bdnsports@bangordailynews.net