I enjoyed an idyllic, restful weekend, reading studiously under bright sunny skies in the comforts of home, pleasing natural stimuli, sights and sounds, everywhere. Does it get any better?

My wife was out of town visiting grandsons Jordan and Arie, providing me with plenty of time to read a fascinating book about birds and their anthropomorphic ways. I purchased it noontime Friday at World Eye, was delighted to find a copy of the new release in stock, and delved right in upon returning home, not even waiting for my wife’s departure to the People’s Republic of Vermont, that great little state with independent Yankee DNA flowing back to Ethan Allen and friends. The book immediately seized me. I couldn’t put it down; was so committed, in fact, that I awoke at first light Saturday and Sunday mornings, dressing warmly, hat and all, windows wide open, before laying back on a leather couch to read under artificial light, serenaded throughout by sweet, incessant cardinal melodies, front and back, stereophonic, uplifting and, yes, even invigorating. What a way to start the day.

During intermittent breaks, I spotted a bright red male bird perched in the burning bush and sugar maple out front, later in the forsythia and large fir tree out back, so I knew some of the joyous tunes were his. Or were there two or three or more? I suspect a nesting female or two were also singing their happiest spring tunes, but I never saw one. Still, the songs were better than anything that could have been delivered by my clear Pres Speakers, innovative surround-sound units created totally by the hands and mind of old friend Mark Pieraccini, a man who loves baseball like no other. Well, I used to love it, too, maybe as much as he, perhaps even more. But now, consumed by other stuff, baseball’s behind me. I view it as kids’ stuff, great while it lasted, maybe even better than great; for had I been a songbird back then, I would have whistled rapturous tunes. No doubt about it.

Isn’t it strange how this new book, one I would recommend to anyone and am here discussing – “The Nesting Season: Cuckoos, Cuckolds, and the Invention of Monogamy,” by Vermont naturalist Bernd Heinrich – came to my attention? It all started with e-mail correspondence between me and a faraway, foreign cyber pal, during philosophical discussion about Christianity, the three forms of Greek love (eros, agape and philia), and monogamy. At one point in this enticing correspondence freshet, I questioned the popular myth we’ve all heard about birds mating for life, said it made no sense that nature would construct so rigid a rule when the goal of mating and courtship is to maintain and strengthen species. I wrote that I had been told for years not to hunt wood ducks because they mated for life, would never find another once their “first love” was gone. I told my faraway friend I had never believed it, viewed it as pure nonsense, even from my own mother’s mouth, because it violated the basic tenets of nature – my personal god, the only one that can drop me to my knees. I viewed the doubtful bird-monogamy concept as propaganda that fit snugly and conveniently into the same Christian Doctrine I rejected as a gullible peach-fuzzed lad. They tried to snare me back then and failed. I believe I’m a better man for it. Certainly not a true believer. Far from it.

But let us not digress. After stating my case in writing, off the cuff, about ornithological matters I knew little about, I was feeling a little insecure, like maybe I was talking through my, well, you know what. After all, there I was, basically an autodidact, certainly no academic, communicating with a world-renown doctor of science who probably knew more about the lifetime-mating theory than I. Maybe some birds do mate for life, I thought. Possibly she knew it to be so, would view me as a fool for suggesting otherwise. So I went to Google and started hunting information with different keywords – combos like “birds” “lifetime mates” or “birds” “monogamy.” Sure enough, up popped Heinrich’s latest book, fresh off the Harvard Press. I had to read it, and did.

My weekend reading chores began each morning in the west parlor before the sun peeked over the eastern tree line. Then, before 9, I’d move to a comfy backyard table in the alcove formed between barn and woodshed. There, catching hot rays through a clear blue sky, I was serenaded by some of the birds I was reading about, mostly cardinals. It was surreal, distant  rattle of the stream, maybe 100 feet away, adding soft percussion, like brushes petting a snare drum. At times, the cardinals’ song would distract me, pull me away from Heinrich’s prose. My eyes would stay focused, not my mind, which would go briefly elsewhere, thinking about the cardinals and what all the singing meant, maybe wandering further off to more complex matters. But I always found my way back to the book and regained focus, my goal maximum comprehension, not always easy with your mind awhirl.

Fact is, despite reading a detailed account of bird-nesting behavior, I never really understood why those cardinals were so happy and vocal. It had to have something to do with nesting and mating, I thought, but why exactly they were so vociferous was above my pay grade. Then, Monday afternoon, the singing abruptly stopped after my daily feeding trip to the kennel and pooch Lily. I had heard their blissful songs throughout the day while reading the new Rolling Stone, and had several times through the back windows seen a brilliant male perched brightly on a dead fir limb 10 or 12 feet off the ground. All had been quiet when I walked through strong, blustery winds to the cookshed, where I opened the 30-gallon plastic tub, took a scoopful of Iams and dumped it into a Griswold No. 8 skillet for Lily. After greeting her, tail wagging, at the kennel door and placing the skillet at the back right corner, I returned toward the woodshed and spotted a faraway clump of something that had not been on the ground below the fir tree during the outbound trip. As I approached the tall tree towering over the barn roof, I could see it was a bird’s nest. I picked it up and found underneath the remains of three or four broken blue eggs, right below the perch used many times by the male cardinal. A coincidence? Who knows? Not likely, though, in my mind.

Being no ornithologist, I could not say for sure that the fallen nest belonged to cardinals. Northern cardinal eggs I Googled were cream colored with brown speckles, not solid blue, and cardinal nests were not constructed like the one I found. But I knew the singing had stopped after the nest fell. So my guess at the time was that it was those cardinals’ nest, and that the singing would resume when another was built, a new clutch laid. Call it deductive reasoning, which, at the time, was all I had. Kind of like my uninformed opinion that birds do not mate for life. That suspicion was confirmed by Heinrich, a veritable expert. He says birds are monogamous by necessity, not choice; and that even after they’ve secured a partner for mating season, cuckoldry is not uncommon. Imagine that! I shudder at the thought, then break into a wry grin. For the umpteenth time, an interesting discovery has tickled my armpit. What discovery? Well, the knowledge that sometimes you don’t need a gilt-framed diploma to figure things out. Common sense often suffices, is more than enough. That fallen nest may have been a robin’s, or maybe even a robin’s nest under consideration or already populated by cardinals. Possible, I guess, but would need more research for a definitive answer. What I know for sure, though, is that the cardinal singing went silent after that nest tumbled to the turf. Then all was quiet for more than 24 hours, not a peep anywhere within earshot. Everything changed following Tuesday’s damaging, late-afternoon rainstorm when, sometime after 5, the singing resumed like it had never stopped. By Wednesday morning, sweet cardinal tunes could be heard all around me; from my yard, front and back, my neighbors’ yards, across the brook – a cheerful symphony in dynamic stereo. I looked out and caught two frisky scarlet males involved in a chase from tree to tree, bush to bush, through the front yard, one right on the other’s tail, both low to the ground, the one in back scolding the pursued with a staccato chipping sound. Maybe the chaser had been cuckolded, heaven forbid. Nature’s way, it seems.

I again pondered why the singing had resumed and what had stopped it for more than a day? It must have had something to do with that fallen nest, or perhaps another, unseen, that had tumbled down in the same tree-swaying wind.

Then again, when you think of it, does it really matter? Isn’t it sometimes better not to know? Nature’s mysteries are entertaining, intriguing and capable of wildly spinning your wheels to a shrill scream. Usually, that’s  good enough for me.

It’s that time of year when, sadly, I must report, not write, despite what’s going on around me. Given a choice, I always prefer writing to reporting. There’s a big difference. One not everyone understands.

The time is right for writing. Perfect, in fact. The early spring has produced a rare overlap of beautiful colors from the magnolia, forsythia, Japanese maples, apple, quince, bleeding hearts and Quanson cherries simultaneously adorning my yard in their full splendor. The rhubarb and asparagus are ready for their first cuts, and even the lilacs beneath the magnolia are sporting tiny purple blossoms while many full magnolia flowers still ride the cold, blustery wind on their flimsy shoots; very unusual, first time in 13 years on my property that the lilacs have shown color before the magnolia tree turned green, its scattered pink tulip petals rotting on the turf below. So here I sit, space-heater purring behind me, spot-heating, refusing to start the wood stove or tip up the thermostat for this cold snap that’ll soon turn warm.

Speaking of pink, how about that Full Pink Moon in the sky, the one I promised weeks ago was due for opening week of turkey season; weather permitting, would likely stimulate aggressive daybreak gobbling from boss toms? When I left work Tuesday night, I could feel that bright moon behind dense stormy clouds high in the southern sky, its filtered light illuminating downtown Greenfield, casting a favorable hue over the uplifting facelift bordering the town common. Miraculously, by the time I arrived home, some three miles north and west, and stepped outside to run the dog, the moon shone brightly in a clear, starry hole framed by billowy gray clouds, akin to a large floodlight peeking through a wide, unruly smoke ring, the sphere sneaking through leafing streamside maples and reflecting off a Hinsdale Brook eddy. The sight and sound spun me off into reflection and introspection as they often do. Call it lunar influence, which again infected me, brightening a cold, gray week in a suddenly clear midnight sky; as though the clouds intentionally opened to remind me the moon was there, looking over my shoulder, coddling me till the sky cleared, the air warmed.

Gray, overcast days and full moons might signal trouble for some. Take a friend I know who recently got into a turkey-hunting jam that’s haunting him. This good, honest man now finds his fate in the hands of the government, the law, which doesn’t often display empathy for honest mistakes. Maybe someone will intervene and inject some fairness into the authorities investigating this sorry case. Perhaps they’ll understand that the way the illegality played out clearly identifies it as an error, a twist of fate, not a crime. I hope so. The man deserves a break, nothing less. But the people calling the shots probably won’t care, seldom do in such cases. Sometimes judges and juries or officers of the law must understand the gray, not just black and white. They must be willing to explore the spirit of the law, the reason it was enact ed, not just the fact that a rule has been broken. At least that’s the way I see it, not from the rigid law-and-order, red-white-and-blue perspective; my view more philosophical, not cut and dried as prosecutors and cops often demand these unforgiving days.

Remember, this opinion’s coming from a taxpaying citizen who just Tuesday appeared for jury duty in Orange, was seated and promptly yanked by the prosecutor for the third time this millennium. I guess men who reason like me are not meant to be jurors in 21st century courtrooms, even in a liberal state. And to think I now sit passing judgment at my desk, seated on a long-ago discarded walnut chair from the Hampden County Court. Is it irony or coincidence? You decide.

But, like they say, life goes on. Then you die. I guess when you think of it, we’re all just passing through a place much bigger and more complex than any of us.

Fact is, like most, I wasn’t eager to serve on that jury, anyway. Fancy that. For once a member of the majority, far from silent.

What a difference a day makes. That’s what I was thinking the day after last week’s column about the spring buds and flowers that had greeted me on a morning backyard visit with dog Lily.

What had struck me first the previous day were the burning bush’s tiny pink buds, a new color, subtle, lining the brook’s bank by the cook shed. After studying the tiny buds, I looked around to assess the progress of other trees and bushes, later recording in print what I had observed. Following a day of hot, bright sun and temps nearing 80, everything changed. That same burning bush was sporting green, not pink, the forsythia was in full yellow bloom and the maples wore that pretty pastel green of spring, having overnight gone from buds to tiny mayfly wings. But that is not what I want to discuss today. No, I want to focus on the saucer magnolia and coincidence. Yes, coincidence, something I have wrestled with often following surreal discoveries related to me and this valley called home. My conclusion is that very few weird discoveries I encounter are coincidence, but rather something far more spiritual — this from a man who’d break out in hives on a trip through the chapel door.

I wrote last week that I intended to fulfill a promise by sending a faraway female cyber pal photos of the large magnolia along the east side of my home. I wanted to reciprocate for pictures she had sent me of a Hawaiian magnolia flower weeks earlier. Later in the day, I evaluated the tree and decided to wait. More blossoms would be open the next day. So, wait I did, shooting several shots back-lit by the late-morning sun before e-mailing them to my German friend. A typical heartfelt response the next day brought me once again into the realm of coincidence vs. something deeper and more powerful; maybe a simple twist of fate, more likely a spiritual puppeteer playfully working his strings:

Dear Gary,
How nice of you to think of me and send these gorgeous sights! I had a bit of a difficult day yesterday — it was the 9th anniversary of Jon’s passing. Seeing the beautiful magnolia blossoms and learning that spring has arrived in your place really cheered me up. I do hope to meet you in person some day, dear cyber pal. Have a great weekend and enjoy the beauty of spring.
With much aloha,
Hannelore

She was referring to a boyhood pal of mine who moved far from his Franklin County home before departing this world too young, at 47, a cancer victim in Hawaii. It was there she met him and suffered through his illness, patiently nursing him along until his mom and late sister arrived for his final weeks; never easy for anyone. Hannelore has not forgotten her late friend. At least once a year she sends me a check for graveside flowers to adorn his peaceful resting place, protected under the canopy of massive hardwoods, even stately shagbark hickory, one of my favorites.

So, tell me: Was it coincidence that on an April 8 whim — sitting at my desk on a sun-splashed morn, magnolia beckoning though the window to my left, forsythias screaming from across the street — I stood to get my camera, take some shots and send them to my cyber pal? Or was I magically lifted from my seat by a force I cannot explain to brighten a sad day being suffered by a lady friend I have never met?

I cannot accept that quick trip across the south face of my old tavern as coincidence. Far more profound. Spooky, in fact.

Is it real? Or have I gone mad?

I guess it depends on the evaluator.

I was out back early Wednesday morning with four-legged friend Lily by the brook, running clear and strong, its soothing rattle penetrating dense air as the dog made her rounds, splashing enthusiastically across a shin-high rapid to wet her coat before taking a little romp on the opposite bank. She broke into the perimeter of a small hayfield, nose high into a crosswind, searching for squirrels, rabbits, maybe turkeys, anything to flush or chase up a tree. The cool, damp air was pleasant, the sun hidden beneath foggy skies that would soon burn off and bring the predicted 85-degree April day, potentially a record, perfect for the nighttime Yankees-Red Sox rubber game.

The neighborhood dogwoods and star magnolias had worn brilliant white for days, and my own forsythias had been in bloom, not peak, since the weekend, nicely complementing the yellow daffodils. Now the lilac buds had popped into tiny little green wings that seemed to visibly grow as I stood looking at them in the dull, most air that had deposited a delicate, web-like dew across the greening lawn, clearly identifying my path, showing every step I had taken from the woodshed stoop to the kennel door, then across the mouth of the cook-shed to the lip overlooking water’s edge. I noticed, standing there, that the tiny pink buds on the streamside burning bush were more noticeable than the previous day and would likely be more prominent, even from afar, after a day of bright, hot sun, the same conditions that promised to bring out the saucer magnolia blossoms on the gabled east side of the house. They had been threatening to pop for days, just needed intense sun and heat to stimulate the process. I reminded myself to later in the day snap a digital photo of that tree, one of the oldest, most beautiful magnolias in the county, tightly clenched, pink buds waiting for days to burst and reach their showy tulip petals skyward. I had promised to e-mail cyber pen pal Hannelore Hoch a photo when it bloomed. A German professor/author/curator and friend of a friend who died too young near her vacation home in Hawaii, Hannelore loves flowers and had sent me a tight shot of a Hawaiian saucer magnolia flower six or eight weeks ago, her harbinger of spring. It was then that I promised to e-mail her a shot of my own magnolia when in blossomed. I knew the time had come, waning moon settling this two-legged lunar creature temporarily into a peaceful orbit. The new moon will appear in a week, leading to a full moon at the end of the month, brightening the prospects for opening week of turkey season. The night skies will then likely be crisp and clear and cold, perfect to entice throaty gobbles from predawn hardwood roosts. Something promising for hunters to eagerly anticipate.

The sound and sight of the free-flowing stream and the thick morning air reminded me of spring fishing, and the fact that stocking reports would likely be waiting in my e-mail inbox before 9. As I watched the stream’s current, it brought me back to my younger days, when this time of year I often pushed myself to the water’s edge at the crack of dawn, before the birds sang, to take advantage of ideal water conditions and voracious feeding by shaded mountain trout. Back then, I’d catch my limit before most people were awake, clean the fish streamside, return home to package them in Ziploc bags and deliver them to my paternal grandmother, always an early riser. She’d keep what she could eat and give the rest to friends who thoroughly enjoyed them. When I kept trout for myself, they’d always be squaretails, large or small, baked or pan-fried, their moist orange meat one of New England’s natural delicacies, right up there with fiddleheads and strawberries. I learned many waters that held the beautiful, native, speckled trout and likely still do, although I have heard disheartening tales to the contrary from brook-trout aficionados. I don’t want to believe them, would rather remember how it used to be, sneaking into the back side of reservoirs or private ponds we all knew well as boys and fished regularly, always early, before household light bulbs burned.

Stocked trout were fun to catch. I can’t deny that — acrobatic, sky-pilot  rainbows bursting from the riffles, furiously wiggling in midair, hooked, irate and trying to shake or break it. But they could never compare to squaretails as table fare, and I well knew the difference. Still do. Give me a native any day, be it fish or foul or animal, two or four-legged.

Yeah, maybe I am a snooty New Englander. Not the least bit ashamed of it, either. Quite proud, in fact.

A sparse snow had just started to fall, tiny flakes floating to the ground with the buoyancy of dust particles in a ray of sunlight piercing the woodshed window, as I stood Wednesday morning along the backyard bank of Hinsdale Brook; pooch Lily scampering along its frozen edge, likely following cold scent of a coon, mink or possum, oblivious to the murmurs of spring whispering from deep beneath a foot or two of ice and its crystalline surface. I find it surreal how moving water, its ebbs and flows, sights and sounds, can bring peace and perspective to a perceptive soul. I’m sure maritime men feel the same about the sea; it talks to them, whispers, screams, breathes warmly down their neck. But I’m an inlander, a freshwater man who often compares day-to-day and seasonal stream alterations to life’s transitions.

I guess I have felt a mystical attachment to flowing water since skating, fishing or just horsing around with boyhood pals on Bloody Brook, along which my Arms ancestors, once Sunderland tanners and cobblers, built a profitable 19th-century pocketbook shop, by my time a decaying, red, three-story Victorian plastic shop piping horrible, raw, rust-colored poison into the water below. That building’s now long gone, replaced by Cowan Auto Supply.

My riparian lure only grew stronger in later years, when dropped off by my mother at West Brook in Whately or Mill River in Deerfield for a day of trout fishing; spinning rod in hand; leaky hip boots and worm bucket fastened to my belt; wicker, fern-lined creel looped over my shoulder and neck. It taught me to read water, respect it, compare its riffles and pools, runs and eddies to the game of life.

Still later, I moved to similar streams a little farther off, the South and Bear rivers in Conway, where I honed my angling skills and discovered a bigger, more dangerous river called the Deerfield, just a larger version of its tributaries, worthy of more respect. Yes, one must respect big rivers like the Deerfield, which can swallow a man in an instant, then spit him out in a body bag, stocking-foot waders still strapped over the shoulders, belted at the waist.

Although I no longer fish, I may be more in tune with streams now than then, all because of the backyard brook that carries the surname of the original taverner to call my property home. I observe that free-flowing, stone-bed stream several times daily, find myself just standing there on the bank, often thinking how it symbolizes life and parallels our moods: slow and sluggish in summer; frozen and narrowed to random slits in winter; full of energy and emotion in spring and after heavy rains, even those of winter, when sudden freshets transport large, dangerous ice flows and bobbing logs to bottomland destinations, out of harm’s way. It’s like the stream speaks to me daily, reminding me we’re all in this together.

It was that soft murmur of spring muffled under thick ice, amplified by cold, still air that reached my ears this morning; an optimistic sound distantly related to the lazy snowflakes falling. It made me wonder if a man who interprets nature this way is losing his mind or gifted. Then I realized it doesn’t matter. Judge it as you may. I know who I am.

Leave it to the eye of the beholder.