Last evening I heard the first flutey call of a wood thrush. It wasn't close--down in the valley somewhere. I had to stop and wait for the sound to repeat to be sure, and then I heard it again. It's one of those quintessential sounds that says "forest" to me. In another week or so, my woods will be full of their songs and that of the ovenbird.
When the trees are bare, I have a great view of the mountains to my west. In the summer, I have no view, but instead I have a symphony. I can sit out on the back deck with Dog and Baby Dog and just listen to all the calls I hear and identify the birds, frogs and others who sing them.
Right now it is raining--finally. This area is inches low in precipitation this year. And this rain is all the trees needed for the leaves to burst open. In one day I went from having a slighly obscured view of the western mountain to one where I can only barely tell there's a mountain over there. By tomorrow, I wouldn't be surprised if even that was gone.