April 6. Along Kingsmill Avenue, the first crocuses have pushed through disheveled leaves, new treasure amid last year's refuse. Their appearance is sudden, a lion-hearted challenge to the cold. They poke noses skyward, petals clasped tight against the chill drizzle and moody sky. One sloppy bloom, dark-purple, hangs open with its naked, gold stamens exposed, a tongue of fire in the gullet of the dragon. The Eastern phoebe has returned! It flits through the branches of fallen trees over the river. It is the earliest migrant songbird and surest sign of spring now that the American robin is prone to spend winters in Ontario. Who could guess the phoebe would find any insects in this cold? It does not sing its nasal song, merely utters a raspy call note to ward off my approach. The rain on the quiet Eramosa has a sibilant voice. Three geese go gliding.
April 9. Mountsberg Conservation Area. Ephemeral ponds flood the forest, providing habitat for water beetles and insect nymphs. At 4 p.m. the air shrills with the voices of frogs, Pseudacris crucifer and Rana sylvatica. We could scan the water for hours without seeing one, but a bejeweled R. pipiens, leopard frog, leaps purposefully through the dried leaves. This park offers an extensive network of hiking trails and a raptor rehabilitation centre. A variety of birds live in cages around the compound: two bald eagles, a pair of snowy owls, several American kestrels and others. These few could not be rehabilitated due to serious injuries or human imprinting.
April 11. Waterloo County Agreement Forest. The tract is dominated by sugar maple, Eastern hemlock and American beech. Striking is the diversity and abundance of fungi, such as Trametes versicolor, in this relatively mature forest. We find bright scarlet cup fungi (Sarcoscypha austriaca ?), poking out from under leaves.
April 14. With crocuses open, I hike across the bridge to see if Dirca palustris, leatherwood, is in bloom, but its buds are still tight. The maple tips are bursting, though.
April 17. After a long overnight rain, the grey sky hangs soft as silk. Moist atmosphere mutes the tree line of the distant ridge. The river is swollen. Its usual blackness has turned cloudy brown. Beaver have been gnawing on the upper branches of a black willow that fell in the gale of November 13. The trunk snapped about four metres above ground level but still hangs from the standing part. Apparently it is still alive, and the prone limbs make fast food for
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