February 13, 2012 § 3 Comments
It is dangerous to think that winter might almost be over, but no one can help it. It just feels that way; the days are creepingly longer, and the sun has been shining in that late winter way. Not warm, but warm-ish. Not high, but getting higher. Not just bright, but almost too bright, reflecting and refracting off the thin veneer of snow covering the land. The sugarers are tapping in anticipation of an early run, and yesterday afternoon, when I went to the pigs, I found them lounging outside, their bacons turned to the azure sky. Good pigs.
I’ve always loved winter, but I have to admit, it’s fine to feel the slow shift toward spring. This is partly due to the long list of tasks pinned to the pantry door; it’s a list that we already know will not be completed, although no one’s admitting that yet (oh wait: I just did). But the simple facts of the weak snowpack and the ease of movement through the woods have allowed us to make progress months ahead of schedule. Most of next season’s firewood is in, and better than half is split. I am slowly chipping away at the the pile of saw logs from which our new barn will be built. Penny has paced off the new orchard and figured out where to put the chestnuts. As always, our excitement is getting the better of us. It’s our perennial weakness, and I embrace it.
Still, it is only middle February. I was not born yesterday, or even the day before that. April is still almost seven weeks out, and April can be a capricious month, prone to wild swings in temperature and heavy snows that break both tree branch and spirit. Therefore, what I probably ought do is shut the hell up about how much it feels like spring.
And so, I will.