mid-March #phenology

Yesterday we noted one of the  local sugar bushes (not the one pictured) has their buckets hanging. On the same trip, we confirmed that the St. Croix River at Osceola, WI is open water. A few ducks have joined the swans and geese as the leading edge of the waterfowl migration moves North.

sugar bush in March

Photo by J. Harrington

The small pond up the road, which had been open water, today is covered with skim ice. At 3 pm the temperature is still below freezing. Springtime is a sometime thing in our North country. Local weather forecasters have started to mutter about "model trends suggest a growing chance/threat/opportunity for accumulating snow for portions of Minnesota next Friday." Although the flood risk has decreased, we're not out of the woods yet.

arriving some time around the  third week of the month?

Photo by J. Harrington

There's still no signs of male red-winged blackbirds nor sandhill cranes. That may change if we avoid any major storms this week. It's about this time of this month that they usually arrive. We've seen recent reports from the  Chicago area that the cranes are headed North, so that's encouraging. No doubt if all our feathered migrants had arrived, we'd complain about nothing to look forward to, forgetting for the moment about purple finches, bud burst, skunk cabbage and wildflower blooms as events yet to be enjoyed this year. Then there's the evening sounds of Spring peepers and wood frogs coming from the back yard's wet spot, which remains frozen.

We've been lucky (and cautious) so far, but if we have to self-isolate, there's lots to watch for out the living room wind and the glass doors of the deck walk-out. Plus, at the rate we're going, we've a stack of unread books that'll take us a decade or two to get through. For now the sky is blue, sun is shining, cookie supply is in good shape. We'll count our blessings and hope we make it safely through tomorrow's Ides of March.

Mid-March

By Lizette Woodworth Reese

It is too early for white boughs, too late 

For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall 

A few last flakes, ragged and delicate. 

Down the stripped roads the maples start their small, 

Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks 

A rich and deepening red. The willow tree 

Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks 

The lean bush crouching hints old royalty, 

Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows 

Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose. 

The days go out with shouting; nights are loud; 

Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold; 

The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold, 

Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.

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