Mid February . . . winter sighs its frosty breath upon the landscape, reminding anything with legs or wings that it will release its icy grip whenever it damned well feels like it, and those with a lick of sense hear the warning and pay heed to it.
“The bitter wind howls through the night,
Frosted trees gleam in pale moonlight.
Rivers freeze in silence deep,
As winter’s icy fingers creep.
“Snowdrifts rise and shadows fade,
The world lies still, in white cascade.
Frozen earth and skies so grey,
Cold’s embrace won’t melt away.”
But there is deception afoot.
For sure, many outdoor activities are on hold. Only a fool will dig post holes in February. Only a fool’s apprentice will attempt to chop down an alder with an ax in February. Outdoor activities are divided into two categories: those which must be done, daily, such as the feeding of animals and the upkeep of machinery, and those which can wait until the rains, or snows, go on break for a few hours, or when the windchill rises above, say, twenty Fahrenheit.
Deep winter is a time for planning, for writing on calendars, for the gathering of necessary materials when the tasks can be performed. It is a time of ordering seeds from catalogues, of cleaning tools, of oiling machine parts, of sharpening blades, of crossing every T and dotting every I so that when winter does finally call it quits for another year, the farmer can hit the ground running.
Look closely. It may seem a frozen pastoral scene, but signs of spring are everywhere one looks in mid-February.
The incubator is running, the interior temperature remaining steady, a new batch of chicks ten days from hatching and, once hatched, will join the other newborns out in the coop, under a heat lamp, growing by centimeters daily.
Out in the “Cuddle Barn,” the source of the name obvious in the spring, the first two newborn goats are also under a heat lamp, six days old and cuter than cute can be. By the end of March, a mere six weeks from today, there will be at least sixty more to join them, deliveries coming hard and fast any day now, two or three at a time, usually the middle of the night, draining the staff of energy and yet filling them all with the healing power of love.
The chickens are laying more often now, the collection rising into double digits, soon plentiful enough to once again sell to the public from the new farm stand, a farm stand which will be created during the aforementioned month of March.
Rise early on one of these cold mornings and you will see steam rising from the compost piles, goat manure, horse manure, magically becoming a source of life, chemical reactions and all that, and by planting time, a month from now, the best damned compost you could ever hope for, the elixir for those seeds, which will arrive in the mail any day now.
The farmer is putting the finishing touches on his new sauna, built with his own hands, a sauna which will provide comfort and healing warmth this spring and summer when the long workdays rob him, rob all of them, of their energy, and send them all to bed with muscles screaming for relief.
The horses seem more lively, more willing to be ridden, some internal clock, or calendar, announcing to them that longer days are here, longer still to come, and soon the pasture will be growing fresh grasses for their pleasure.
Look closely . . . do you see it?
Listen closely . . . do you hear it?
Spring is coming, ready to kick some winter ass, in like a lion, in like a lamb, makes no never mind at all, just as long as it does arrive and release us all from the talons of winter.
“The frosty grip begins to wane,
As golden sunlight warms the rain.
Buds peek out from branch and bough,
Whispering, Spring is coming now!
“Soft winds dance through waking trees,
Stirring life with gentle ease.
The world exhales, so fresh, so bright—
A promise wrapped in bloom and light.”
Bill
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