Snow
lingers in the woods. Pockets of white hide in the shadows of trees and
rock-like ice fills the hollows. Beneath blankets of white, north facing slopes
still sleep where the air remains icebox cold.
But
the slopes facing the sun are welcoming her warmth. Swollen streams rush down
the hills, creating a rumble that seems to be everywhere. Songbirds chirp and
flit about, shyly hiding in the softwoods, busy with courting and spring tasks.
The
bare fields have been invaded by cackling geese, cackling about whatever geese
cackle about. Soon after dawn, high in the sky, a pair honked their way up the
valley, causing even the dogs to stop and listen. Blue skies and warm breezes
make promises we hope are true.
A
walk down along the stream finds the ground cement hard in the shadows of the
softwoods. Even amongst the sunlit alders it is the same. Undaunted, the dogs
make the effort, searching the ground thoroughly. No woodcock or grouse in a
covert that often has both.
Circling
back, up the bank where the sun warms the earth, the bare ground is soft. Eager
noses search for the scent of returning woodcock. Optimism grows with the heat
of the sun, but too soon the cabin comes into view.
We’ll have to try again tomorrow.
We’ll have to try again tomorrow.
