Signs of spring reasons to hope after fire, drought

Two good things happened this week. I spotted a blooming Easter daisy and, while walking in a pink chalky sunrise, I heard prairie chickens.

Spring on the High Plains is not without its challenges — tumbleweeds, sandstorms, and the annual invasion of Miller moths, to name a few.

We have it easier than our pioneer ancestors. We have insulated walls and storm windows. The science of meteorology has advanced to the point where we know almost the moment the wind will hit and how hard we’ll be pummeled before it gives up and rests.

But still, it’s a daunting time of year, what with Mother Nature’s unwelcome dermabrasion sessions, dodgeball encounters with tumbleweeds, and the ever-present fear and subsequent devastation of wildfires.

It is into this harsh environment that the shy Easter daisy pokes up its head, often in a drift of sand beneath a broom snakeweed or tucked next to a gnarly sage root.

My father always brought the first flowers of spring home to my mother, and that was almost without fail a cluster of Easter daisies. They’re small and low to the ground and often half-hidden. When he found the first one, he’d pluck the whole plant and bring it back to live out its days in a shot glass filled with water on our kitchen table.

Although this marks the eighth spring since he’s been gone, I swear each time I find one that he must have nudged me at just the right moment to stop and look down.

The bleak days of March also send out an age-old signal to the lesser prairie chickens, calling them back to their leks — their historic breeding grounds — for a raucous courtship ritual that can be heard for miles across the prairie as the sun creeps up.

Most mornings, I have a reliable soundtrack of blue quail, bobwhites, meadowlarks, and ravens, with back-up from the occasional coyote.

But Tuesday morning, in two directions, I heard the sound that says spring like no other in this part of the world: male prairie chickens engaged in the timeless struggle to woo the hearts of those hard-to-get hens.

During the worst of the drought years, our nearest leks were silent, a reminder of the fragility of life here on the Llano Estacado. The wildfires that ravaged Texas, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Colorado last week were bigger reminders of that fragility.

Maybe that was why it was extra sweet this week that these two things happened.

The prairie chickens are dancing and the Easter daisies are in bloom. There is reason to hope.

Betty Williamson doesn’t pick the daisies. You may reach her at:

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