Spring often feels like it takes forever to arrive here, compared to the rest of the lower 48.
Rains first appear in late February but, as if someone were aggressively cranking the faucets in a shower back and forth, it snows again, then kind of melts, then rains, then snows..... it goes on for weeks. In March, the snowdrops sprout, the snowpack mostly melts away with a couple of rains, but then it snows a little and then rains again, and with the last fleeting sleeting of frozen precip falling in early-to-mid April. Anyone here who puts their snow shovels away into storage before Tax Day is a fool.
Daffodils sprout up. Crocuses too. But where are the buds on the trees? Not here yet. Temperatures rise to the mid-40s during the day, then back toward freezing at night. It's April still, and people are still lighting their stoves at night to take the edge off. I keep light gloves in the pockets of my fleece, and a tuque within easy grasp in case I need it when I head out the door. The days are chilly.
But as April shifts to May the dial noticeably starts to turn. The evening sunlight stretches past dinnertime now, and I can put away my thick winter-gauge pants in the back of the closet. The grass is getting fairly green but still the leaves on the trees have yet to flesh out. As the sun sets, I can see the glow through the woods on the west side of my house more easily than I will in the summer and early fall.
Then, finally, the peepers announce themselves. As twilight fades into night, their chirpy whistles pierce through the dark from the ponds and marshy wetlands of my neighbors. The rains are more frequent and heavy now, and the frogs and salamanders love it. I walk down the road in the murky mist, headlamp beaming from my forehead, and find them crossing the black asphalt like jumping leaves or waddling short sticks. If they have not already been flattened, I help them across, the whistles a few yards away almost deafening as the call of timeless amphibious migration propels them forward, out of my hands into the watery reeds.
The days get warmer. I open the windows of my car more as I glide down the road, gleefully and finally free of the wintery slush that forced me to slow down. The temperatures climb above 60 and, if the sun is out for the day, it almost feels like summer's glory has fully returned, bringing with it some out-of-state plates and reopening roadside lunch takeout stands. And I already have seen some fog out in the cove.
I get out my flip flops and keep them by the door, though I can go outside barefoot if I want to. I test out the lawnmower to make sure it still works, and in my eagerness I clean up the gas grill, even if I won't use either for another week. Forsythia is blooming and plants are coming up in the garden now. We'll have to get on that pretty soon.
But no lilacs yet, and we'll have to fight our way through 3 weeks of biting black flies before the spring flowers arrive in full force. And still no leaves, though the green buds on the branches are visible now. And the peepers are still chiming at night.
As much as I wanted February to fly by, now that we're here I want May to slow down. It's not too hot to need the shade of the trees just yet, and I'm good with the flowers we have so far. It's a sweet spot where winter is once again a memory but the heat of summer's creep from further south has yet to drive throngs of tourists and short-timers into our midst; the worst of those seasons are not upon us, for the time being.
My window is open, yet I see nothing in the dark of night outside. The birds have gone to sleep, but the frogs not yet. I want to be awake, to feel the cool breeze through the screen and smell the hint of ocean and evergreens. Still, I am tired, and also feel the temptation to close my eyes and nod off by the window. And if I do it soon and get enough rest, I might wake with the dawn and the birds looking for their breakfast in my yard.
