Well, I did have high hopes that spring might have arrived. I know April can be a cruel month but this is downright absurd. The snow is accompanied by a very chilly north wind, which my neighbour describes as “clean air.” Like drinking pure water, we have this lovely clean pure air from the north. Yes I appreciate that aspect of it. My lungs thank Jack Frost. But it is so damn cold! To think that five days ago I was cutting back ornamental grass and pruning the raspberry bush. Last weekend, I planted lettuce seeds and had a celebratory beer as the temperature climbed to a comfortable 14 c. Now it is minus six, and all I see are the precursors to spring blooms — I think that the late daffodils will somehow end up merging with the early tulips for quite a show, if the squirrels don’t finish things off first.
To add insult to injury I even washed and readied the hummingbird feeder, just in case they arrived early, pooped and hungry.
Like a confused migratory bird, there is something unsettled in me, about all this. I have my mid season agenda, to sit out on the deck and relish signs of spring, enjoy the smells of thawed soil, and the beginning sounds of the peepers, frogs in the neighbouring wetland, while distant v-shaped tracings of geese shift and ebb from south to north. But now? Now the windows are shut, the wind howls as the clouds race by and I do my best to cheerfully find scarf, gloves, parka and toque for a good natured stroll in the back fields for what surely must be winter’s last hurrah.