Greg Bales

FOY

The first reports of red-wing blackbirds’ return to Iowa from the killing fields of my dream hometown of Beebe, Arkansas¹ came in more than a week ago.² This evening, I may have had my first sighting of one as I was leaving work. High up on the lonely branch of a tree in the middle distance, I could just make out the dark silhouette of a solitary bird. It was late in the evening, and it was cold. I couldn’t make out any markings on it. Nor was the bird making any sound—certainly not a telltale, thrilling trill. So perhaps it wasn’t a blackbird at all. I suppose what made me thing it was was the attitude the bird seemed to have as it perched out at the end of its branch. So I hope it was a blackbird. That would mean that spring is ever so much closer.

It would also mean that I noticed a blackbird almost 10 days earlier than last year.

¹ I hear from my grandparents that Beebe’s mayor is a distant cousin. He’s distant enough, however, that I don’t recognize him.

² The summer I was 17, I drove a red Chevy S10 Blazer with a perennially leaky exhaust manifold 25 miles to Beebe, several times a day, to see a girl. The minimum wage I was earning from a convenience store was just enough to pay for gas. I remember both days and nights that July as hot, hot, hot, but not so hot that I was ever truly tempted to make Beebe my hometown.