How late will spring be? #phenology

Early yesterday evening, one of the local farmers hauled his disc harrow southbound on our road. Today, none of the fields I drove past had seen the start of planting, although a couple of fields were showing green from the emergence of what looked like small grains. The roadside ditch where we usually see marsh marigolds has a few blades of grass greening up, but that’s it. Winter’s browns and tans still prevail in much of our North Country. Spring is quite late this year.

Skim ice again covered the creek pool east of our road this morning. The larger, deeper(?) pool on the west remained open water. Numerous flocks of songbirds are heading north along roadside bushes and trees.

maple tree bud burst, 4/8/2014, 4/27/2022

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve finally seen bud burst on the front yard maples. They’re looking about the same as the photo above which was taken on April 8 several years ago. Spring this year definitely seems to be about three or four weeks behind what we laughingly call normal around here. The combination of rain and/or windchill has  me continuing to defer getting serious about yard chores. Maybe next week? I foresee conflicts arising between being responsible about yard work or going fishing when, and if, the weather finally improves. Since there appears to be no end to yard work, and the seasons have become quite unreliable, I bet I know which side will prevail, especially if the Better Half gets invited to come along.

May to April

Philip Freneau - 1752-1832

Without your showers, I breed no flowers,
    Each field a barren waste appears;
If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep,
    They take such pleasures in your tears.

As your decay made room for May,
    So I must part with all that’s mine:
My balmy breeze, my blooming trees
    To torrid suns their sweets resign!

O’er April dead, my shades I spread:
    To her I owe my dress so gay—
Of daughters three, it falls on me
    To close our triumphs on one day:

Thus, to repose, all Nature goes;
    Month after month must find its doom:
Time on the wing, May ends the Spring,
    And Summer dances on her tomb!

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