I spent a considerable amount of time last year empathizing with a bird who kept flying into my basement window. It wasn’t clear if he was trying to fight with his own reflection, or mate with it, but either way I could relate.

He was driven.

I marveled at the bird’s persistence flying against the window non-stop from dawn to dusk for several days. I almost felt guilty putting down cardboard to block him from his reflection.

I was more worried about replacing the window than about his safety, but I also knew I was cutting him off from something he could not control. I wondered if I was freeing him from an unhealthy obsession or prematurely depriving him of something he was never destined to achieve.

When I finally removed the cardboard (after a few hard rainfalls), the bird never returned. Until last week when Jenny heard the all-too-familiar rapping, tapping sound coming from the basement window just below our bedroom.

I was shocked. Could it possibly be the same bird returning for another go? If so, was he driven to return, or a mere victim of circumstance?

Perhaps it was just the same conditions and angle of the sun that attracted the second bird to the same spot, but how beautiful would it be if it were the same determined bird?

Such wonderful passion for a bird to hold on to throughout his travels. Whether anger or lust, sheer willpower and determination had combined to resume his fruitless pursuit on my tiny patch of land.

I doubt it was the same bird because he quit in under a day. But maybe, while passing through (a bit wiser from his travels), he saw the yard and had to try one more time to see if once unattainable dreams from his avian youth were now within his grasp.

Returning birds aren’t the only thing making it clear that springtime has arrived in Wallingford.

We turned our hoses on this weekend. For those who don’t know, the turning of the hoses is an ancient New England tradition where suburban homeowners mark the changing of the seasons by either opening or closing access to their outdoor water spigots. It is only performed twice a year, never more; a private solstice for your land.

Introducing man-directed water is one of the surest ways of claiming an intent to rule over a parcel of land, but it surely isn’t required to bring life to a yard.

My garden is a testament to the fact that nature waits for no one. If mankind were erased tomorrow, all that would remain from our thousands of years of agriculture would be perennials and broken fences; dandelions would reign supreme.

We need to decide this weekend if we’re going to make another run at gardening this year. This winter has been cruel to our garden fence, which was already deteriorating after losing a fight with a panicked deer last winter.

Despite countless mendings and repairs, the rabbits and groundhogs have the fence figured out. And then there are the squirrels. Even if my fence were perfect, it wouldn’t help against those pesky, determined, dexterous squirrels.

I was so excited at the start of last summer, but my garden brought one heartbreak after another: disappearing strawberries, split tomatoes, inadvertently weed-whacked green onions, zombie zucchini, and of course, the sunflower tragedy of 2017 that we must never speak of again.

The bounty days of our 2016 harvests are far distant memories. This year we’ve got some basil in the window and a Stop and Shop rewards card; that might have to be enough.

I enjoy having a garden far more than actually working on one. I don’t really care that much about the vegetables, I just like watching something grow and change, then die, and sometimes, come back again. It’s the only time I feel connected with the earth.

Some people get too carried away with it. The people I hang out with are more likely to offer me coyote urine than heroin, although contemplating either fills my heart with similar fears of a lifelong dependency.

I understand the draw of each: total control versus total release. but both become binding once you start. Alluring though they may be, their promises are as unattainable as reflections in a window.

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