We awaken to early sun shining through the eastern windows, lighting the kitchen and our bedroom where before there lay darkness. More sun. More warmth. More water.

On March 16 I heard my first Sand Hill Crane. I haven’t seen any yet, but the song is unmistakable.

The swans, geese and teal congregate en masse at the river, but fly away in pairs.

Sugaring taps appeared on the 13th. We need to prune our fruit trees soon and let the sap heal their wounds.

The earth warms, melts snow, re-freezes overnight, leaving lace by the roadside.

Snowmelt flows to the river to wend to the Gulf, waving to friends in New Orleans as it goes by. Hello Caroline!

Hollows become ponds again, holding the melt until the frost comes out and water can seep back into the ground, filling gaps and holes and crevasses to seep back up through root and branch and leaf.

This barred owl was up late yesterday, hiding in plain sight. We often hear its hoot, but rarely see its grace.

Zeke pulls me along in the red morning light. The agates shine on roadsides again.

We hope to see these darling girls and their guy in about 6 weeks, when they will come and help Irene celebrate 90 years of springtimes.

They will find security in Michael’s arms, as do I.

They will go to “See Summa,” bringing the joy of growing things with them.