Seasons and Changes
It seems that in every season there are reminders and hints of the one
just past and of the one to come. I was reminded of that simple truth
again the other day.
It was a particularly pleasant late January day. The bright sun dazzled
everywhere, playing with the snow to create tiny miracles of light and
colour in the open places along the edges of the fields. The trees were
still burdened with the remnant of the most recent snowfall, although
the wind was busily scattering it here and there, eventually to catch
up in some hedgerow where it would rest until April. Although the wind
was brisk, it wasn't really cold; this has been a relatively benign
winter as far as temperature is concerned, and this day was no
exception.
I looked back to the river. I could see ice flows scattered everywhere,
but there was still a lot of open water. That reminded me that after a
short vacation in early January we had returned home to see that the
river was about to freeze over - or so it seemed - but then a couple of
weeks of moderate temperatures had put a halt to the process. Now the
river was in about the same state that it often is before Christmas. As
I stood enjoying the panorama of ice, snow, hills, trees and open water
under an intensely blue sky, I suddenly heard the croak of a raven off
to the east, perhaps a kilometre away. I turned to find it just as a
second bird announced its presence. Then I saw the two of them. They
were flying closely together, mimicking each other's moves in the air
and I realized that this was a courtship flight, the first that I had
seen this year.
To the river, and those who depend on its ice, winter was very slow in
getting established. To the ravens, on the other hand, it was far
enough along that thoughts of mating, nesting, and egg laying were
becoming more and more important by the day. Long before those
traditional harbingers of spring - the robins - put in an appearance,
ravens, Great horned owls, and other true northern birds will have
hatched their broods; for them, spring begins in February, not in April
or May.
I can stay outside now in some light until 5:30; in December, it was
closer to 4:30. On the other hand, again, the stars in the night sky
are those of the winter - Orion dominates and the Big Dipper is well
overhead; by early summer, the one will have disappeared over the
horizon and the other drifted off toward the north. On the hardwood
ridges, the Beeches have yet to drop the last of their leaves, while
the Balsam poplar buds are already beginning to show some signs of
swelling. The spruces and firs are turning a slightly deeper and richer
shade of green, especially on sheltered southern exposure slopes.
And on its goes. The more I look around me, the more I find it
impossible to determine a time in the year - at any time in the year -
when all the signs of those of the season at hand. Everywhere there are
remnants of the past just past, and promises of things to come, perhaps
just around the corner of the calendar.
