Liberate Your Spring: An Ode to the Blooming Time

Colorado’s transition from brown to green is an irresistible march. A symphony of emergent life awaits you in either snow or record-breaking heat. Springtime always surprises.

As I head out for my walk, my head is still groggy from the isolated exhale of winter and no coffee. Today I walk with intent, leaving my ear buds behind. Greeting me at the base of the Linden tree, I see a mated pair of mallards lazily enjoying the mess made by the house finches at my bird feeder. I welcome them with a friendly “hey, ducks!” The female tilts her head to show a glint of sunshine in her eyes, forgiving my toadlike morning voice.

The first daffodils say, “It’s finally begun.” Early sentries of spring, welcome tendrils of green, these harbingers tell me the process is already well in flight. My eyes open a second time.

Crossing the street, my feet take me through crunchy remnants of last season’s tall grass. I make sure to avoid the fresh, green clumps. The trees are still barren, but each holds a precious package waiting to burst.

Looking out at the island in the center of the small reservoir, I see roughly 40 cormorants assembled haphazardly in their rookery. These dark hunters linger on shore and lounge in branches, lazily watching as a member of their community prepares to land near one of the ragged clumps of twigs passing as a nest. Gadwalls and northern shovelers dabble offshore.

The dirt trail is dry this year, no mud season. A honk from a Canada goose tells me they see my passing. They seem to be pairing up for their own dance. A happy resting ground for hundreds of waterfowl each winter, the lake and larger neighborhood are overrun with these clever giants who even use the crosswalks when they stop traffic.

As the trail approaches Jeffco Open Space and a large, sprawling meadow, I hear it. Startled by its volume and closeness, a haunting call to arms against the oppression of winter, I instinctively drop to the ground in soul-felt gratitude. This is the first call of the Western Meadowlark. Though he’s here all year long, he’s perched on his fence post and letting everyone know this is his open space, and it's now time to party.

Both hands still on the dusty trail, I hear his call again as I rise. This is the moment; he is the gatekeeper, and I am glad to hear his trumpet for the first time. I didn’t realize how much I craved his call. Growing up in Minnesota, the addictive lure of lilacs punctuated each spring, and I never heard this song.

I walk past the dock and look over the water again. A Great Blue Heron, its neck bent like a back-saving snow shovel, skims the water to find a new spot on the shore. I probably disrupted the second breakfast.

As I continue around the bend, clumps of quaking aspen to my left and poplars to my right, I barely hear familiar, spirited chirps. A parade of six yellow-rumped warblers makes its way through the trees just above and beside me. Some pause to show off their black-and-blue-grey cloaks. Some flit across the trail, flashing their famous rump as they move ahead of me. Old friends returning; my heart swells, and I feel as if they recognize me. They appear only for a few weeks, offering intermittent glimpses as they refuel among the branches. This is the headliner moment I look forward to each year. Each time I see them, it’s like stumbling on lost treasure. Selfishly, I like to think they are coming to say hi to me, and that they miss me, too.

Near the playground, I look for the robin who lingers on the gentle slope. She’s not here yet, nor do I see the Say’s Phoebe waiting on the bridge. They will be back soon, along with the yellow warblers. The bug clouds only materialized from nowhere during the last day or two. The swallows shall soon launch into this fray.

As I finish the walk, another mother sits proudly atop a weathered perch. Her journey may stretch as far as Argentina. With her brown bib and stern look, she says, “I am here!” even though she’s silent. This Swainson’s Hawk maintains a nest by Denver Botanic Gardens at Chatfield. It’s an honor to see she’s made it back once again. Returning to my home, I’m relieved to see the mallards safely dozing at the base of the Linden tree.

May you find your own unplugged moments outside. Be in the beautiful dream of springtime in Colorado, an orchestra of color and sound as life soars into new beginnings. Drink in clusters of starlings, find flocks of robins, marvel at hummingbirds, and welcome all your friends as they make magic happen in Spring 2026. 

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I’ll hold you in my loving arms

But I’ll let you fly free

Hummingbird, hummingbird,

Now your heart beats in me

Maren Morris