The pockets of snow and ice cling grudgingly to the warming earth. Like mini-glaciers the retreating snow exposes compressed pine needles and dead grass covered with a thin gray layer of mold. However, along the south facing hillsides small patches of green grass are experiencing rebirth. The golden glint of buttercups were no where to be seen. Along the trail the piles left by mother and son moose are concentrated in a short section in an exposed, south facing opening.
The robins and magpies call out at dusk and suddenly I hear the first tree frogs, their voices sounding like pieces of dinosaur eggs being scraped together. Walking steadily up hill in the deep gloaming I see a flash of movement as a silent Great Horned Owl leaves its perch and glides away into the dark.
J Ross Wilde