Appalachian Resurrection

How the frog chorus, returning robins, and wild daffodils announce resurrection in the Appalachian hills.

Appalachian Spring: Frogs, Robins, and Daffodils

Winter don’t leave all at once here.
It lingers in the hollers,
rests in the shadows of oak and pine,
settles quiet over last year’s leaves.

Then one night—
without announcement—
the pond begins to pray.

Treefrogs lift their steady trills
like incense off the water.
Bullfrogs answer deep and sure,
a bass line rolling across the dark
like an old preacher clearing his throat.

Jug-o-rum.
Amen.

Robins return with work on their minds,
tilting their heads to the soil
as if listening for the Lord’s instruction
beneath the thawing ground.

And through the brittle cover of yesterday—
through what looked dead and done—
daffodils push up gold.

No trumpet.
No spectacle.
Just quiet obedience to the light.

That’s how resurrection comes in these hills.

Not loud.
Layered.

Water wakes first.
Then wing.
Then root.

And if you stand still on the porch long enough,
breathing woodsmoke and damp earth,
you can feel it in your own bones—

The same God who stirs the frogs
loosens what winter tightened in you.
The same hand that paints the daffodil
is not finished with your story either.

Spring in Appalachia isn’t just a season.

It’s a promise kept again.