I was looking for an affirmation. I wanted a sign that all things in nature agreed with my senses that it was time for spring to show its colors. It hadn't been a terribly objectionable winter, with no sub- zero plunges and no big snow storms. Neither though, had there been an occasional sunny day amidst a thaw. Consistency is usually not bad, and this winter had been consistent.

It was Saturday morning, and I was securing the airplane after the last flight of the week. I had spent the previous hour and a half droning into a 60 mph winter headwind, safe and comfortable above a layer of clouds that seemed to cover the whole world below 7000 feet. From time to time I would peek around to look back towards the east. It was thrilling to see the sky slowly grow bright with the colors of dawn after so many months of night flying. I didn't actually see the sun before I had to drop down through the murk and land in Elmira, but my imagination was inspired by a springtime reverie.

We have gained about three hours daylight since late December, and the days will grow rapidly for the next two months. The sun, when it chooses to shine, drives a cozy warmth through even a winter jacket. I have seen starlings, geese, and even the mockingbird that summers at the airport. I have watched as a robin, perched high in a brushy tree, filled the morning air with a springtime song. For those who are more attuned to the cycle of contemporary life, clips of spring training camps are regular features on the evening news.

At the start of the weekend, my spirts had an extra bounce from the thoughts of spring. I looked around for a consensus and heard crows, mourning doves, and flocks of sparrows and starlings. I sorted through the array of bird songs, and realized that it was pretty much a proletarian blend. Except for the starlings, these were birds that had the means but not the ambition to go south for the winter. Even the cheery song of a few distant cardinals could not change my conclusion.

As I listened for so much as a cluck from a robin, the mockingbird swooped down into a hedgerow bush and cast an ominous vote of silence. Under a lead gray sky that was spitting little grains of icy snow, the mockingbird sulked silently, his body feathers fluffed into a ball and his tail uncharacteristically low. Without a sound, and only a sideways glance, he said "Winter ain't over yet, fella".