How heartening it was to peer into the lacy fretwork of a grove of young maples in the Lanark woods this week and see buds, lavishly enfolded in ice, but waxing rosy and vibrant in the depths of deep gelid winter.
Bud and branch, tree and thicket, all were vibrant and living entities, and every single nubbin was an atomy - a perfect tiny world replete with infinite greening possibility. There was more hope in that moment of unfettered astonishment and those minute swaying presences than I have encountered in some time.
A pair of great horned owls is constructing their nest in an old oak in the deep woods, and the Northern Saw-whet is practicing its courting songs. Wonder of wonders, somewhere beyond these rocky snow clad hills, spring is already on its way.