“…And yet, down under the frozen crusts, at the roots of the trees, the secret of life was still safe, warm as the blood in one’s heart, and the spring would come again! Oh, it would come again!” – Willa Cather, O Pioneers!
There’s a different smell to the air, a sort of sharp scent that dares winter to linger much longer.
The geese who call this place home have come home. The geese who use this place as a rest stop on the way to their homes further north are camping out.
There is muck everywhere.
On the Ides of March, before the equinox but close enough, the first hesitant croaking of a frog. It was a bit premature, but I heard it.
Skunks are on the move.
A muskrat was swimming in a slough.
I saw a raccoon resting on a bale.
It’s still light out at 7:30 in the evening.
The Big Puddle has arrived.
Spring is coming. It’s almost here.
The surest harbinger of spring there is, The Big Puddle forms in a depression in our yard every spring. As children, my sister and I went through an average of four pairs of rubber boots a day playing in the puddle. That puddle was more exciting than 1000 Barbie dolls, held more possibilities for fun than Disneyland itself. It was ou rspringtime kingdom.
March 15, 2015.
