March 4th, 2025
The chill in the air reminds us it is still winter, and it has been a cold winter all along. It can be seen in the piles of icy snow that line the edges of the yard, and it can be felt in the wind that shakes the house and tosses the tree tops from side to side. For so many years recently, we have bemoaned the fate of winter. Winters just aren’t what they used to be, we muse. We long for the excitement of skating across a vast expanse of pond. We remember the thrill of shrieking down a sledding hill. It seems this year that Old Man Winter was listening well. Let us be careful what we ask for.
This is the year that we came to understand the meaning of “feels like” temperatures. Meteorologists describe it as how hot or cold the air feels to the human body when factoring in wind, humidity and sunshine. For the rest of us, it simply means that when we step outside, it feels a lot colder than it looked from the safety of our window vantagepoint.
On windy days like today, the yardbirds flit from feeder to tree branches in the calm between gusts. When the wind blows, they grip tightly to the nearest branch and hunker down. The snow thaw has left a puddle under the shelter of the oak leaf hydrangea. It has become a favorite place for birds to dip and splash, safe from the watchful eyes of the hawk. The red of cardinal and the blue of jay add welcome color to the barren brown landscape. A few daffodils have sent up their green shoots just an inch or two. It seems like they sent up their tentacles to survey the growing conditions and halted mid track. Not safe for man or beast or daffodil on these early March days. We still walk in the forest, but I listen warily to the creaking of branches overhead. There is always the possibility of one falling down, hopefully not on my head.
One day very soon, the winter chill will lift. The ground will finally thaw releasing its earthy scent and birdsong will fill the air. The fruit trees will blossom and the rhubarb will unfurl its mighty leaves. The garden, so barren now, will spring to life with chickweed and wild sorrel. And hopefully, once again, our old chickens will feel a lift in their step and lay a glorious egg or two. Hope springs eternal.
