Spring is Sprung . . .

. . . the grass is riz,

I wonder where dem boidies is.

De boid is on the wing.

Now isn't that absoid?

De wing is on de boid!

I learned that poem in another century and have yet to learn the poet's name. But there's no wondering where "dem boidies is" or any other evidence that spring has finally sprung, for the signs, besides the robins and crows, are everywhere. Even the snow drifts from what we hope was the "sting in winter's tail" last weekend are melting.

Tree buds are fat, the catkins have burst, and along the edge of the walkway, a few shy green blades of grass are poking up. My perennials are faithfully returning, but I'm going resist the temptation to pull away the dead, dry trash matted from around the sprouts for a few more days, because I know from experience that's a sure invitation for a late frost to burn away those tender first shoots.

And today marks the Opening Day of Calving Season. We've had a few early arrivals, but today is the official due date of most of the 3000 cows and first-time calvers on the ranch.

I know I'm cute.

As I mentioned before, another of the farm wives (who lives on the ranch, too) and I cut the twines from almost 900 round bales, so the soon-to-be moms wouldn't be disturbed by tractors and fee-wagons during their calving time. This is from last weekend, after that (hopefully) last blast of snow.

Hay, hay!

And finally, and sadly, another sign of spring is increased predator activity. Wolves need to eat, too. And it doesn't take them long to acquire a taste for veal. 

Wolf print. 

Welcome, Spring and her hurried seasons of planting, gardening, cleaning, branding, and mowing. She arrives quickly, as we go to sleep with snow drifts banked against the back door and awaken to dandelions overtaking the lawn. Suddenly, everything will be green, so green that it hurts our colour-starved eyes.

And since it's above 0º today, I'd better go put on a pair of shorts and sandals to enjoy wearing them while spring and summer last, because before we know it, it'll be time to put away the mower and garden hose and batten down the hatches.

Every spring is the only spring, a perpetual astonishment.  Ellis Peters