Early Spring

The first crocus bloomed almost a month before the equinox this year, snowdrops and hellebore a month earlier. In the first three weeks of March, iris reticulata, daffodils, scilla, periwinkle, forsythia, hyacinths, windflowers, dog-toothed violets, corydalis, bloodroot and trillium sprang up.

Nearly all the bulbs are blooming, even the late-season flowers. High temperatures approached 80°F most of last week. The air smells like sunlight on hyacinths. The crocus and snowdrops are done. Bumblebees are working. Ticks are out. April has staged a coup on March. Chloris and Maia outrace Artemis.

The redbuds showed tiny black knots on their branches last week. Three days before the equinox the buds were dark red. Yesterday morning they were deep purple; by afternoon they were in bloom. 

This morning the sky slowly filled with clouds, building dark and high from the west. Crows began to shout. Cardinals, blue jays, titmice, chickadees and a couple of red-bellied woodpeckers dived on the feeders. The young green of elms shone against deepening sky. As the rain began, the air turned from gold to silver. 

I can’t remember a year when spring arrived so early, so suddenly, so completely. I remember invoking Flora under cold rain at the equinox two years ago. We had intended to deck her with flowers, but the best we could manage were a few crocuses. No matter. This spring she has decked the woods with blossom.

Tomorrow is the equinox.

Bloodroot

Clearing

I've been breaking down brush for a couple of weeks. Coralberry is the main species in the undergrowth. It took me several years to figure out that it breaks off between my thumb and forefinger more easily than I can cut it with loppers or a bow saw. Several years ago I cleared space for new garden beds under the local power line. It had been cleared before, but coralberry and greenbrier had repopulated like crazy. Coralberry propagates by runners and has bright burgundy berries that last all winter, but greenbrier is just evil. The locals call it wild rose, but it's a Smilax, not related to the genus Rosa — wild rose or dog rose. It provides habitat for birds, but it strangles the trees. It kills the woods. I break it off with my gloved hands. Before I sleep, I dig the thorns out of my fingers. It's worth it.

Wild grape is the most common vine in the areas I'm clearing. It tangles and coils around the trees. It winds its way to the sky, then brings down its host. I tried tearing it up. Dionysos gave me to understand that this was against his will. So I made an arrangement with him: I will refrain from pulling up or cutting down wild grape vines, and he will not pitch me down to the earth and throttle me with vines and falling branches or impale me on underbrush. I put a mask on a tree to represent Dionysos — to remind me to be respectful when I see his vines. I exist in these woods by the sufferance of the gods. I am part of something larger than myself, and more holy.

Timber

One of the ways you can tell the locals from the outsiders around here is by what they call a stand of trees. Woods or woodlands, forest, grove and copse are all outsider words. Timber is what most of the locals say, and see. Timber can be a resource or an obstacle, depending on the use being made of the land. Timber is always practical — function before beauty.

That does not mean that the locals fail to appreciate the woods. I bought a cord of hedge from a neighbor last year. As we began stacking it he said, "Don't you just love trees?" He generally cuts hedge and locust, sometimes helping other farmers clear pasture. One year the ricks of wood looked so beautiful he took pictures. Later that winter, straight rows of cords turned into six-foot snowdrifts. He staggers the rows now, not as pretty but more accessible in bad weather.

The original forest was mainly oak and hickory. My scrubby second-growth woods are a riot of species, some of them considered nuisances. I'm okay with that. I do love trees.

On bright winter days shagbark hickory stands against the sky like the old horned forest lord. Stag sheds his antlers in the wood, making ready for new growth.

Warm Snow

The first snowfall of more than an inch came on February 13 this year, mostly before dawn. A fluffy blanket was on the ground by daylight. It kept coming down in the morning like mist, fine and moist. The rabbits and deer tucked up in the woods for the duration. Birds left tracks everywhere. Other than that, the snow was pristine before I walked in it, my feet touching earth, leaving deep prints.

Beside the dormant garden, echinacea seeds turned into snowballs.
My daughter photographed them among bramble canes.

She sent them to a friend with this message:
"Echinacea seed heads in snow, black raspberry canes glow, cedar and elm trunks shelter and lean. Slowly, surely, stubbornly Spring stirs. This is what I see, this is what I know of Love, Grace and Joy."

This morning the fog came down for a while, but the snow is already shrinking. It will sink into the soil when the sun comes out.
Spring will not be denied.

Late Winter

Winter is late this year. The snowdrops have decided it's not coming. A snowy owl irruption reached as far south as Missouri. A whooping crane family went north from the Cheyenne Bottoms a month early. The geese are flying east and west and all agley.

Late winter is my favorite time of year. By the middle of February — sooner this year — the snowdrops are in bloom. If you peek under the mulch and leaves along the paths, you will see crocus and daffodils putting up shoots. Forsythia has buds along its branches. Hellebores send up new foliage. Last week I spent a couple of afternoons outside in the sun. One little bee came hunting the snowdrops, a single veil-winged melissa scouting the earliest pollen for her queen.

Tolkien called this the season of Stirring. Winter has held off for so long now that it will mingle with spring. Last weekend a half-inch snowfall clung to the branches until the morning sun melted it away. Today the sun is shining in defiance of predictions, but a cold front is on the way. The first real snow may fall by Monday.

The days are lengthening, and the bees are working no matter what. Somewhere the mysterious cave of the Great Mother hums with priestesses feeding honey to a newborn god.