On this beautiful Sunday afternoon, my husband and I stood in the dappled sun that reached through the open sides of our woodshed. There, tending the fire under our maple syrup pan, we reveled in the sights and sounds of spring. The gurgling of the little creek as ducked beneath the snow uphill from us, re-emerging briefly 20 feet downstream before sliding under the snowdrifted foot bridge that leads to our sugarbush. The chickadees, redpolls, and cheerful Mr. Cardinal all sang their spring songs in the neighborhood trees and thickets. Invisibly tucked into the higher boughs of an ancient cedar tree, I heard a nuthatch “meeping.” Behind us, a mile or more distant, we heard the fading hum of a snowmobile as it crossed Lake Superior’s ice, headed toward ice fishing grounds. Steam rolled off the boiling syrup, lifting up to the rafters of the rustic shed and sifting out through the slatted walls.
It’s hard to imagine a dreamier, more peaceful early spring setting for afternoon reverie!
The crocuses near the foundation on the south side of the house are blooming their delicate lavendar, bright yellow centers calling “Spring!”