One way I know spring is coming is that the morning sun shines in my face and wakes me. The picture window in our bedroom faces east. At the winter solstice, the sun is so far south that I can only see the way it colors the sky in the pre-dawn hours, creating a theatrical backdrop for the bare tree branches. As the equinox approaches, the sun creeps around the corner of the house heading north. Come June, it will shimmer so brightly through that window, it will be impossible to sleep past 7.

On a recent morning as I lay in bed watching the sky turn orange, I spotted a pair of red-shouldered hawks silhouetted against the brightening sky. They were making a nest, taking turns carrying sticks into the high fork of a maple tree down near the edge of the pond. I ran to get the binoculars, crawled back into bed and lay there watching them work.

Since then I've been eyeing the location, figuring out best vantage points to watch the progress of this couple as they lay a clutch of eggs and hatch a chick or two. We've had red-shouldered hawks in and around our yard for years and knew they were nesting somewhere down along the creek that feeds the pond, but never spotted the nest before.

A favorite part of tending the spring garden is watching the hawks fly over the yard, soaring in wide circles and arcs, sometimes three or four together, making me stop and look up when I hear their loud, frequent calls. The males swoop and dive, vying for a lady hawk to join them on the nest.

Red-shouldered hawks are pretty easy to distinguish from the other common hawk in the Piedmont, the red-tailed. The most obvious difference is their calls The red-shouldered cries repetitively, kee-yah, kee-yah, kee-yah, some times as many as 8 calls in a row. The red-tailed gives one long raspy cry, cheeeeeeew, the one you hear dubbed in at pensive moments on TV. The main visual cue is that the red-tailed has just that, while the red-shouldered has distinct black and white tail bands that you can see when the birds are soaring.

When my father was alive, a pair nested in his yard for many years in a row. He could see his hawk family from his bed and woke to watch the parents flying in and out to feed the chicks. He complained about the racket they made. I don't mind the incessant calling. I'm glad they're here. They remind me of him.

In the evening, the setting sun beams in the kitchen window while I'm making supper. I gaze out into the golden light, notice the daily changes, think of the many gardens and seasons that have passed, and look forward to watching another spring unfold.

Maria Hitt writes, cooks, gardens and studies nature in the countryside near Carrboro. You can write to her at mkhitt@bellsouth.net or visit her blog, morgancreekchronicles.blogspot.com