I woke this morning to a late winter snowfall, the kind that whispers as it falls: “Mark me well, because I won’t be around very long.”
It’s the type of snow that falls straight and soft and starts clinging to the ground and to tree limbs almost right away, saturated with a moisture that will quickly evaporate once the sun reappears from behind the clouds. An air temperature of 40 is not kind to snowflakes, ending their lives as soon as they begin, but not without some positive effect, for the tiny particles of dust that snowflakes are constructed around settle to the earth and become part of it.
This is as late-winter as it gets, as spring arrives tomorrow some time around midnight, and by the time anyone reads this, spring will already be a few days old. It happens in the northern hemisphere when the earth tilts on its axis in such a way that all the land masses north of the equator are closer to the sun.
This process starts the cycle of growth as new plants “spring” from the earth at the sun’s urging and with help from moisture that, from that point on, falls mostly as rain as the air continues to warm. From our place on the globe at least, we have once again collectively turned our faces toward the day star that will warm our earth all summer and into early fall.
Here in these woods, spring means many things, and most of them happen quietly and with no great fanfare. Observing the tops of the trees blowing about in yesterday’s strong wind gusts, I noticed how full their buds are, how close they are to bursting. Each day, I’ll get a glimpse here and there of a bit more color, from the reds of the maple buds to the yellow-green of the birch buds as both await their cues. Then, suddenly, almost without warning, there it will be, the rich new green that never fails to take my breath away, crowning these woods in their glory once again. The vernal pool across the road will tremble beneath it all, alive with its own activity from the myriad forms of life that populate it, as the last of the snow disintegrates and disappears into its depths.
As I write, I can hear the soft thuds of snow clumps hitting the roof, and a glance outside reveals the white stuff slipping off pine boughs. It’s still snowing lightly, but the sight tells me that the air is warming, and the snow has no chance of lingering long on the trees this day. “Partly cloudy” is the forecast for later today, so I gaze long upon this scene before it disappears. I’m sure there will be more such white mornings before spring finally gets its way and claims this kingdom for its own, once more relegating yet another winter to memory.
It’s late afternoon now, and the trees have shed their white cloaks. Blue sky is visible between the last of the thick clouds, and the trees are awash in the sun’s setting light, that, with the recent time change, is now happening well past 5 o’clock. What grass was earlier hidden by the new snow has appeared again, yet another sign of winter’s slowly giving way to spring.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.
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