Anticipation beats expectations #phenology

Call me a Pollyanna if you must, but one of the nice things about sitting here in mid-February, looking out at -1℉ sunshine, is the realization that, with the  probable exceptions of taxes and politics, we have the ten best months of the year ahead of us. After all, Spring leaf out is only about 2 1/2 states South of us now.

home-made tree stand at wetland's edge

Photo by J. Harrington

One of my favorite Christmas presents last year was a pair of LL Bean boots with insulated linings. I promptly discovered they're no match for a couple of hours in January temperatures, sitting still on a tractor, with little movement to keep blood circulating in my feet. A new pair of Sorel boots may be in order for Christmas this year, about ten months from now. But, today I'm really looking forward to wearing my new Bean boots during this year's exploration of the nearby wetlands, as I look for signs of emerging skunk cabbage. That should begin sometime in the  next two to four weeks, weather (snowfall) and temperatures (snowmelt) permitting. The new boots may also work well when I return to exploring local trout streams, come late March and early April. I'm still mindful of something I think John Gierach wrote that I read some years back: "I wear hip boots to keep me from wading where I should be fishing." The Bean boots are only 8" high which makes them much shorter than hip boots and so should keep me on the bank and out of Spring's high waters thus making me concentrate on reading water, casting and fishing more than wading.

sometimes the (hen) turkey comes to your deck rail

Photo by J. Harrington

I've seen a few short articles that Minnesota has almost completely changed the way they manage Spring wild turkey seasons. A thorough review is in order to see if I want to bother with a license this year. We live in the midst of turkey country but, almost every year in the  past, when I've bought a Minnesota license or headed to the Dakotas, I've been confounded by our Midwest's volatile Spring weather, with blizzards and thunderstorms disrupting those "best laid plans." Maybe the recent changes offer more flexibility?

Before any of the preceding can happen, however, we need to survive tomorrow morning's dog walking time wind chills of something like -30℉. After that, maybe we can start to concentrate on watching for leaf buds swelling as the remaining snow drifts melt and listen evenings for the mating calls of owls.

Snowy Night

by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning. 

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