Rippled and bedazzled
More birds have joined the chorus: a cardinal, a junco and a mourning dove. The snow beneath an elm is heavily strewn with strips and chips of bark, signaling that woodpeckers have feasted on the dying tree. Several geese and a pair of mallards returned to the pond today for the first time since January. Last year the pond never completely froze and the ducks remained all winter.
March 5. It poured rain all night. This morning I wait for the 10:30 bus downtown with my knuckles freezing on the handle of my umbrella. When I get off the returning bus at 1 p.m., the sun comes out and suddenly, warmth. Spring. For once I can pinpoint the moment the seasons change; or perhaps in hindsight I'll realize it has only been only a brief thaw. Dappled clouds and glowing giants race eastward across the sky. Shadows and brightness flash along the river. The mild Eramosa River is swollen more than I have ever seen it, smoky green water submerging golden grasses along the shore. The pond lies rippled and bedazzled. The current temperature Is 15°C (49°F).
March 7. I walk downtown in the evening. This city lies under a fresh lace shawl of snow. Sounds are muffled. My boots trudge softly. The snow makes a crinkling sound underneath. The air has been hovering consistently around freezing so the snow sticks to everything. There is no wind. The flakes fall ever so slowly through the glowing spheres around streetlights, like fishbowls. Every branch is perfectly detailed. Crossing the Heffernan Street bridge I see all the lights of the city reflected in the Speed River. St. George's church glows with spotlights reflected on its walls. The bells gently toll 9 p.m. in resounding, sifting stillness. Around the corner, the front of the church flows behind white trees bearing crystal berries of water droplets. Walking home later I stop on MacDonnell Street bridge to watch the powerful Speed sliding over the dam in semi-darkness, thundering at the bottom. Then I spot a muskrat in the distance, nosing through the snow. It seems lost. It stops at the edge of the flood wall, high above the turbulent water, and sniffs the air. After a minutes consideration, it follows the edge and eventually passes right underneath where I stand on the low train trestle. It is about two metres below me. Even in the darkness, its form and movements stand out clearly on the snow.
March 8. I retrace some of last night's steps in order to take photos of the city
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