Sequestered, Week 292 (CCXCII)

Maples in the Pink

Budding

Rumors of Spring

Happy March!

For a few days this week, weather in the village was mild, and the towering snowdrifts everywhere subsided a bit. Birds sang lightheartedly in the park, and maples in the garden sprouted tiny red buds. For a while we dared to entertain the fragile hope that springtime was on its way and warmer times were not far off.

Alas, March roared in like a lion. Several inches of snow fell overnight, and we are back to heaving white stuff out of our way. I have already shoveled the deck, the stairs and a track around the garden for Beau, and I will tackle the front walk and driveway after my fingers have warmed up. First, a fine cup of hot, black coffee.

Weather Canada says the snow will stop in an hour or so, but I am not holding my breath. There are snow clouds up there from one side of the sky to the other, and a nasty north wind is rampaging through the village. When the sun rises tomorrow morning, the temperature will be in the minus thirties (Celsius) with windchill factored into the equation. Old Man Winter is not done with us yet. Harumph.

Maple Budding Out

Sequestered, week 205 (CCV)

Rumors of Spring

Now and then, there are balmy, brilliant blue days in early March, but mostly, we lurch along between winter and spring, blue skies and grey skies, scudding clouds and no clouds at all. Temperatures are up, down and all over the place, and we (Beau and I) are never sure what to wear when we set out in the morning for our first walk, a light, waterproof jacket one day, a warm parka the next.

Wonder of wonders, a gnarly old willow down by the creek was putting up lovely furry catkins a few days ago and the tiny icicles suspended below cradled tiny branches and fragile scraps of green. The little stream at my feet was running free and singing, its waters dark and glossy and filled with possibility. Willow, song and flow are still percolating in my thoughts this morning, a day or two later.

A hodgepodge of seasonal images and motifs perhaps, but not unusual for one of my favorite corners in the great wide world, and I am quite all right with it. There is light in dwindling icicles, in thawing streams and fuzzy little willow buds, and perhaps springtime is not far off. I cling to the thought and turn my collar up against the north wind.

On we go, paw in paw, light flickering through the trees, scraps of green in the landscape around us, geese in the sky above. The slowly awakening world is a symphony written in sound and light, and even our footsteps have a part to play in the performance.

Maple Does Her Thing

Wordless Wednesday - Budding

Small Beginnings

Sequestered, Week 153 (CLIII)

Pussy Willow Time Again

Pussy Willow (Salix discolor)

Sequestered, Week 152 (CLII)

Rumours of Spring

Sequestered, Week 109 (CIX)

By Root and Branch and Bud

Budding and Early Light

Springing to Life

Out of the Shadows, White and Gold

Bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis)

Reaching for the Light

Wood squill (Scilla siberica)

One day, there are snowdrifts in the yard at least three feet deep. The next day, the snow has disappeared into the good dark earth, and tiny flowers are springing up everywhere, reaching for the light over their fragile heads.

Grasses thrust themselves out of puddles in the park, and a few ducks paddle up and down the little stream among the trees. Everywhere, there is birdsong, every feathered singer in the overstory declaring its delight in the season.

Sometimes we (Beau and I) thought winter would never end. Now, we can hardly believe our good fortune. Every sunbeam and every tiny bloom is a gift.