“To the mouse, snow means freedom from want and fear…. To a rough-legged hawk, a thaw means freedom from want and fear.” —Aldo Leopold
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I’m raking snow off our roof when I hear it. The sun broke through the gray haze like a white hot dime an hour ago, and I’m grateful for its feeble warmth. The gutters groan and bend under their weight of ice. I’ve knocked most of the icicles down, pretty though they are—-lining the roof’s edge like a winter holiday postcard.
We have a foot and a half of snow on our roof. Uh, oh! For the first time in our 23 years of living in the Chicago Region, we’re concerned enough to borrow a friend’s roof rake and try to do something about it. As I rake, the snow avalanches down the shingles and I’m sprayed with white stuff. It’s like being in a snowball fight with yourself. The squirrels wait in the trees nearby, ready to return to their assault on the birdfeeders when I finish. I try to imagine what they’re thinking.
Then I hear it again. Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound of thaw.
The prairie, slumbering under her weight of white, hears the sound. There’s a faint stirring in the ice, especially where the sun strikes in full.
Winter is far from over; its icy clasp on the prairie will linger for many more weeks. And yet. There’s something in the air this week, despite the cold haze that hangs over the tallgrass.
Certain sounds—that “drip!” Water trickling in a prairie stream under the ice. Snow melt. The smell of something fresh.
A male cardinal sings his courting call. I stop in my tracks. He doesn’t seem to be daunted by the snow flurries, seemingly stuck on “repeat” this week. He knows what’s coming.
Above the ground, the prairie grasses and wildflowers are smothered in snow drifts. They look bowed and broken by the wild weather thrown at them over the past few months.
A few stalwart plants stubbornly defy the storms and stand tall.
Their long roots—-15 feet deep or more—begin to stir. You can almost hear a whisper in the dry, brittle leaves. Soon. Soon.
It’s been a beautiful winter.
But a long one, as winters tend to seem when you’re half past February and not quite close enough to March.
Even as the snow is grimed with soot by car exhaust along the streets, there’s beauty. All around, the particular delights of February. The stark silhouettes of grass stems…
…the prairie’s geometric lines and angles; devoid of frills and flounces.
The gray-blues and rusts of the prairie landscape, seem intensified at this time of year. Everything is clarified. Distilled.
Perhaps because of the long grind of the pandemic, this winter has seemed longer and gloomier than usual. Colder. More difficult.
But when I open the newspaper over breakfast, the headlines seem less grim. A faint whiff of optimism tinges conversations with friends. I feel hope in the air; hope that we are nearing the end of our long haul through this dark night.
My spirits lift when I see the signs, scent the smells, hear the sounds of a new season on the way.
Spring is coming. Do you sense the thaw? Can you feel it?
Aldo Leopold (1887-1948), whose quote opens this blog post, is best known for his book of collected essays, A Sand County Almanac, published a year after his death. Today, it is considered a critical foundation for conservation and wilderness thinking. Leopold’s book has sold more than two million copies and influences many who work in wildlife and prairie conservation today. Another favorite quote: “A thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise.” Read more about him here.
Last Chance to Register for February 24 Program! Join me online from anywhere in the world via Zoom.
February 24, 7-8:30 p.m. CST: The Prairie in Art and Literature– Online. The tallgrass prairie is usually thought of for its diverse community of plants, animals, and insects. Yet, it is also an inspiration for a creative community! In this interactive online talk, natural history author and prairie steward Cindy Crosby will explore historical and contemporary writers and artists, musicians, and other creatives working in the prairie genre: from Neil Young to Willa Cather to graphic comic artists, quilters, and jewelers expressing the prairie through their work. See the prairie in a new light! Come away inspired to appreciate and express your love of the tallgrass as you enjoy learning about this prairie “community.” Offered by The Morton Arboretum: Register here.
how true, and also, my brother and I were able to visit Belmont Prairie about 7 weeks ago after reading about it. what a nice hole in the wall there.
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How lovely that you got to visit this amazing remnant! Difficult to believe it survived, isn’t it — sandwiched between houses, railroad tracks, and soccer fields. It’s not easy to find. Thank you for reading, and taking a moment to send a note to let me know, Mike! So glad. Happy hiking! Here’s to the thaw….
I’m ready!! The bit by bit thawing of the snow on my deck reminds me that in a few short months the pots will be brimming with color. I’ve loved the beauty of the snow. Looking ahead to spring.
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It’s lovely to watch, isn’t it Cathy? That slow slide back to spring…. Enjoy every minute, and thank you for reading!