Pussy willows. Irene’s favorite. They appeared yesterday, along with the first chorus of frogs.

The St. Croix runs high, covering the sand bar at the Nevers Dam boat ramp. The first loon of the season flew over Zeke and me this morning. I realized that a Sand Hill Crane sounds like a loon, only on a different scale; an oboe to a loon’s clarinet.

The ducklings peep with piccolo insistence-Food! Water! Food! Grow! Step foot into the coop and they clump and pretend to be moss.

They need more practice.

Cumulus clouds rain on us, easing the frost out of the ground. You can almost hear the increase in tempo: trees budding, grass growing, insects buzzing.

Michael ran into blocks of frost turning over the first garden plot. The chickens make quiet but excited clucks, as if saying “See, there’s a worm. Hush. Don’t scare it. Yum.” Thrum scritch scratch thrum drum.

Warm enough to spend time on the deck, taking in the show.