Another example of why we live in Michigan

“Philip, come quickly!”

Kathy’s cry was urgent. I worried something was terribly wrong, and walked into the kitchen. My wife motioned toward the window. There, standing on the gray rotten ice of the pond were two Trumpeter Swans, dazzling white in the bright light; enormous, serene presences on a glorious, sunlit day.

It felt as though the King and Queen had come for tea.

America’s largest water fowl are rare enough that seeing one — let alone a mated pair — is a true event. Happily, a Trumpeter couple stop on our pond fairly regularly in March. They’re headed to their nesting places in the Arctic tundra. While resting on our pond, they’re safe from the neighborhood coyotes and other nasty critters.

Trumpeters look at lot like Mute Swans, but Trumpeters’ bills and feet are black. Mute Swans are aggressive, especially on their nest; I recall a time at Stratford, Ontario when one literally drove a friend of mine away, hissing and striking with her long neck.

Trumpeters’ calls literally sound like a trumpet.

But they weren’t the only birds about that day. In short order, we had a full dozen Lesser Scaup ducks, “Blue Bills” to hunters, buzzing around among the larger, slower Mallards, diving to feed below the surface. They were joined by a bunch of Ring-neck ducks, busily diving to feed under water. And for three mornings now I’ve heard a strange gibbering, high up, sounding for all the world like a lost Pterodactyl, the immense flying reptiles of another age.

But these were really Sand Hill Cranes, looking for snakes and frogs, come all the way from their roosting grounds near Jackson.

The noises of the early morning have changed, too. In the mid-winter dark, I’d hear the “hoo hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo” of the Great Horned Owls, brooding their eggs on the nest, hunting for rabbit or vole.

Now as the eastern horizon turns a slight greenish-pink, I hear the Cardinals singing their heads off, while the Yellow-bellied Woodpeckers sound like distant chain saws with bad spark plugs.

The House Finches and Goldfinches that come regularly to our bird feeder are now deep raspberry pink and bright yellow, no doubt in response to the growing light. Occasionally a Merlin, a small falcon with a slate blue-gray head and a savage expression, flies by, searching for a fast songbird snack.

Of course, I couldn’t bear to stay in the house, so we went into the nearby woods to pull grapevines and Virginia Creeper, cut the Gray Dogwood that died during the winter and continue our war against the invasive Buckthorn. Panting, I looked down, and just in front of my right foot was the deep purple blaze of the first Crocus in bloom.

The sugar maples along the drive are dropping just a little sweet sap. I remember my Grandfather Power, who had a sugar bush near Traverse City. He’d boil and boil the sap down into viscous brownness and pour the maple candy out in the packed snow for the kids. Woe to anybody with a loose filling!

All this – and so much more – means spring has come to Michigan, my Michigan! Our Michigan. Sure, if you don’t like the weather, just wait a moment. But just now we’ve all lived through the winter – not too bad a one, after all; small snow and only a little cold.

And now that we’ve paid for it, we get to experience the glory of spring. This spring, with day after day of cloudless, blue sky and bright sun, is among the best I can remember.

This is why we live in Michigan!

The great 20th century historian, Arnold Toynbee, argued in his 12-volume Study of History, that civilizations that arise in the seasonless tropics never achieve the adaptive drive of those that experience season change. No change of seasons, no iron necessity of hard work to survive. I have no idea whether he’s right, but I sure would hate to live there are no seasons.

The German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, once wrote: “Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.” These days, everywhere you look there’s another poem sprouting up.

“Sprouting” seems to me is the right word, because I am always astonished at how urgent things become so suddenly when spring finally arrives. It’s as though the entire creation has sat for months in dim, cold suspended animation, only to break forth in beauteous heavenly light – just like the great Easter hymn we sing in our church:

Break forth, O beauteous heavenly light,
And usher in the morning;
O shepherds, shrink not with affright,
But hear the angle’s warning.
This child, now weak in infancy,
Our confidence and joy shall be,
The power of Satan breaking,
Our peace eternal making.

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Editor’s Note: Former newspaper publisher and University of Michigan Regent Phil Power is a longtime observer of Michigan politics and economics and a former chairman of the Michigan chapter of the Nature Conservancy. He is also the founder and president of The Center for Michigan, a bipartisan centrist think-and-do tank which is sponsoring Michigan’s Defining Moment, a public engagement outreach campaign for citizens. The opinions expressed here are Power’s own and do not represent the official views of The Center. He welcomes your comments at ppower@thecenterformichigan.net.