Spring Springing

Our snow is gone except for the roadside ditches compacted by snow machines and shady wind drifts under towering banks and bluffs. It surely was a winter that came early, stayed late and caused area residents to wonder if they, too, had stayed too long. While challenging in some respects, our changing seasons are also among the wonders that annually renew themselves and our spirits. As mid-day shadows shorten, annual bird lists lengthen until once again the robins, grackles, crows and house sparrows assume their common places sprinkled with the chimes and warble of bunting, bobolink, oriole, and crane.

Curious about the flow of CamelCreek, I took the country road behind the village, over the ridge and down past the tree where, several years ago, my friend pointed out the only dickcissel that I have ever identified. At the bridge, the water was at least a foot above early summer flow, and discolored; about the maximum turbidity that trout could tolerate in following a brass spinner.

Proceeding up the creek, the dog thrust her nose into every receding snowbank, professing great interest in things that I could not see, hear or smell. The icicle stalactites, mere shadows of their bulk a month ago, but still hanging like dragons' teeth from ledges of limestone revealing the terminus of lateral aquifers on strata below the crest of the bluff.

A peripheral movement a hundred yards ahead, flash of tawny fur, pricked ears, tail full and horizontal as he glided silently over the old iron bridge.  He stopped broadside and watched us for a moment, the dog's nose buried in a snowbound burrow, my concentration on him as I fumbled for the camera in my pocket. Then, unhurried, he ascended the farm road to the west. The dog and I proceeded to the road where she suddenly lifted her nose and charged ahead to the full extent of her leash, straining to hold the lingering scent. I anchored her to a sturdy oak, found his prints in the snowmelt mud and recorded the track for later assurance that this was not a ghost or shadow, but a coyote, as we were, out to savor a fine spring day.

Cross-posted to The Renaissance Post