Early Potterings

And so they continue... routines of staying home and doing things like gardening, yard work and baking, of taking long rambles with Beau in early morning before our favorite haunts are tenanted by unleashed dogs and their thoughtless owners, by sleepy walkers, bemused gawkers and weekend warriors. 

Nights are still cool here, but early mornings are perfect for wandering, and we seldom encounter anyone else on our outings. In the overstory, grosbeaks serenade the rising sun. Below them, woodpeckers act as a rhythm section and put on a fine performance. Ducks paddle up and down the creek, slurping up tasty bits from the bottom and waggling their tail feathers. Geese fly back and forth between farm fields and the river, now and then, a heron or a Great Northern Diver (loon). 

This morning, a cormorant flew over our heads on its way north.  As I watched it go, I remembered that the word cormorant is actually a shortened version of the Latin corvus marinus meaning "sea raven". For centuries, cormorants were considered members of the corvid family, and were commonly known as sea ravens. With its glossy dark plumage, aquamarine eyes, orange throat pouch and bright blue mouth, the bird is surely one of the Old Wild Mother's most exquisite creations.

The early flickering sunlight in the woods has a buttery, caressing quality. Greenery is coming up everywhere through the tattered remnants of last autumn's finery: delicate fern fronds near the creek, the leaves of trilliums, spring beauty, hepatica, trout lilies, woodland violets, wild columbines and tiny hyacinths on higher ground. 

Whenever we pass through her grove, I greet the Beech Mother and give her a gentle pat. I would love to be able to hug her, but she is an old tree and my arms are not long enough to go around her magnificent circumference.

If this morning's post sounds a bit like a litany, I suppose that is exactly what it is. Winter has packed its bags and is departing. We are happy to see it go.