Who could possibly be drilling at this hour of the morning? I thought as I tossed and turned in the early spring morning darkness a few days ago. Just as I’d drift back off to sleep, the incessant hammering would start up again. For someone to be jackhammering at this hour, it must be an emergency! Not until I gave in to the fact that I wouldn’t get back to sleep, I pulled on my jeans and leashed my two good dogs to attend to our early morning ablutions in the front yard. There, astride the roof vent atop my two-story bungalow, was a Northern Flicker—handsome black-scalloped plumage and bright red chevron at the nape of the neck—methodically drumming away for all the world to hear. I should have known. After all, the Northern Flicker’s wicka-wicka-wicka calls from high up the contorted branched of the Bur Oaks that dominate my turn-of-the-century neighborhood have been the soundtrack to my evening dog walks as of late. The House Finches are singing their sweet twittering song, the striking male Northern Cardinals’ are defending their turf with their constant metallic chips, and the red-breasted American Robins are whistling their melodic cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up. And, right on schedule, the majestic Turkey Vultures have returned from their winter vacations from as far away as South America, their distinctive two-toned white and black undersides and pinkish red unfeathered heads visible as they glide the thermals and fill the evening sky. Groups of vultures spiral upward to gain altitude in groups called “kettles” and last night—to my rapture-loving delight—I counted more then 60 soaring with their V-shaped wings making swooping, wobbly circles above me. The sensation was literally vertigo-inducing. My snowdrops are finally blooming, my witch hazel is showing promise, and spring has officially arrived in Iowa.