MARCH HAS COME to the cabin-in-the-woods
MARCH HAS COME to the cabin-in-the-woods, and with it open ground. The whistle of duck wings over the frozen river—indicating there is open water downstream, near the island. The pileated woodpecker has been hammering a hollow tree all afternoon. The little lane has given up most of its snow and ice, in favor of pond-size puddles. At an hour where darkness held fast only weeks ago, now the sun’s late rays illuminate the pine tops. And today the entire woods is drenched in the scents of moist duff and pine needles. Nothing like it.
Is it Spring yet? Probably not. Probably a few snowstorms or even blizzards yet to come. But it’s March! And when that first week of March arrives, I always feel like that’s it. We’ve made it. And the sweet smell of the earth, the drumming of the pileated, the wild wings whistling overhead, are all just exclamation points.