The December holidays have passed, and the long quiet January days are fading. It is February. A short month in days but long in passing. Waiting for the smell of spring with its abundance of levity and fresh flowers. Waiting for warm soils to nurture new seeds. Waiting for the forward momentum that comes from all that daylight driving photosynthetic energy cycles into a whirr. The dark days of winter are lifting as the sunrise, pale orange and pink, reflects off the southern red oak at the back of my yard. The evening light from the west stretches onwards towards six pm, allowing some outside play time after the paid workday is done.

Two celebrations punctuate the month to distract from its lentic nature. Valentines, for the patron saint of beekeepers, celebrated while the honeybees still sleep in their winter bundles. And Carnival, for the god of agriculture, concluding before the fields are even prepped and plowed. Ironic timing maybe, but well placed to remind us, stewards of the land, that the bees will awaken, and the soils will warm, and busy days lie ahead. Take this time to reflect and rest.

I sit at home as if in suspended animation. Seeds for my garden arriving in little paper envelopes. Overwintered stored potatoes sprouting in their tray on the kitchen floor. Future dreams of a new perfect garden layout and how the weeding won’t get out of hand like last year. An extra warm day and the honeybees burst from their hive in search of freedom and nectar. This exuberance is followed by a week of cold rain. Chilled, soggy ground, with scattered remains of acorns from last fall’s mast. The warm days lull you into believing spring is almost here, while the cold wind whispers, “not yet”.

The meadow stands tall and brown, untrodden this year by any snowfall. The seed heads of Indian grass bend gracefully over the feathered upright tops of split-beard bluestem and the cobwebby mess of purple lovegrass below. Pycnanthemum, Echinacea, and Verbena’s old flower heads strike odd silhouettes, in dusky-grey, intermingled with the grasses. Through this sepia toned image, I squint and see a warm summer’s breeze full of dust particles and buzzing insects. A parade of colors. A space so full of life that for now still slumbers.

One evening out of the blue, I hear a “peep”, and then another and another. Until the sound surrounds my entire being and overflows from my ears. It overwhelms my senses, and my ears buffer the riotous sounds. I try to embrace all the patterned calls. All the varied notes, as they rise and fall and repeat. Spring peepers, oh joy! I mark this day on my calendar annually. This is the start of my heart’s spring. I play with them, walking towards their call and they fall silent with my approach. Shushing each other like bold school children, caught. If I stay very still, they forget I am there and begin to chatter once again. The resuming chorus astounds me every time. This year they sing a week earlier than expected. I hope this change is not so early as to disrupt the delicate balance of this pond’s life. How many small changes are acceptable?

Once the peepers are calling, I know next up is the arrival of the wood ducks. For a week each spring, they sneak onto the pond to overnight. They have yet to stay in the nest box provided for them. I wonder if the arriving birds are not yet paired with mates. A squadron of bachelors. Flying in from the southwest at dusk with rapid wing beats in close formation. The wood duck’s call is unmistakable above the evening song of the other birds. An upturned cry. A lilting announcement of their arrival. If I manage to get to the pond ahead of them and sit in complete stillness, they throw themselves belly first onto the water surface and noisily skid to a halt unaware of my watchful eyes. They promptly glide into the Juncus and willow fringe and bed down for the night. Their morning departure is, as of yet, unwitnessed from the pond.

While watching the wood ducks each evening surrounded by a frog chorus, I see the bright flash of willow’s new growth. The daffodils slowly open, day by day. The red hue of maple crowns becomes unmistakable. Time creeps slowly onwards. A week or so after the wood ducks depart, I say goodbye to another February. I welcome in March, a lion or a lamb and sometimes both, tumbling me forward into another new spring.