The warring of the seasons continues. A blanket of three inches of snow hugs the Mill Trail. The blanket’s threads frayed right down the middle of the path where one person had walked this morning, like a seam ripper through white cotton. Although it had been snowing, the air was a warm blanket of its own. April was pushing back, breathing warmth into the landscape that had gotten sucked back into winter's lungs for a breath.
I kept an eye out for red fox tracks as I walked, but none crossed my path. Meadow voles had been out and active, tunneling in and out of the snow. A deer had crossed the property, headed toward the stream.
This time, the forest wasn’t dominated by the screechy caws of crows or the Hi-honeys of chickadees. The light drum of a dark-eyed junco echoed from a nearby tree, like a cheerful machine gun. A brown creeper flitted between several large trees, starting low and working up the trunk for an insect or spider to catch in its thin curved beak. A high pitched teacup teacu-u-u-u-p helped me locate this tiny bird who never sat still.