Return of the year.

I first heard the cuckoo at the wing’s end of March, across the valley in the far off forest.

His call reached me like a distant echo dampened by the rain that was lashing the spring that had been impudent enough to challenge the parting winter.

Then there was nothing, just the howling of the wind.

Today he is in the garden.

There’s another in the trees behind me.

Both of us looking for a nest.