21 April 2014

new swamp

Last night was the first of the frog song. The even, shrill voice of the Boreal Chorus and the hoarse clucks of the Wood lifted up together to declare they were awake again. Their song has always been my sign that spring has actually come at last. Anyone would sing who had finally thawed out after a long winter freeze. What enduring, beloved little beasts.

After an interrupted period of warmth involving cold wind and a thin layer of snow, it has finally been proper warm these last few days. Warm enough that all the snow--except for the sections under heavy shade--has melted. And, just like every year after the snow melts, our field has turned into a swamp. A new swamp for a new spring. It mostly dries up by the time the farmers cultivate and plant their crops, but stays just long enough to produce a large population of frogs, allowing for what I like to call "frogging season." It's my favourite time of year.

So, yesterday, after seeing all this upon returning home from the day's Easter festivities, going out into it was obviously irresistible. I waded into the marsh as far as my cracked rubber boots would allow me, and as they filled up with water, I listened to the frog symphony and watched the sunset. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the spicy, rotted-grass-smell of swamp. The dogs played in the water and tried to chase the ducks.

Summer is coming. The frogs and the sun seem to say so. There will be insects and storms and a garden to plant soon. I am so thankful to live out here; so thankful for the changing of the seasons.

"Have no place to go, mmmmm./Have no place to go, darling." -C2C

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