This year spring has come reluctantly to Maine. I’m tempted to say it isn’t even here yet. Yesterday, when I went to check the mail, there was such a stiff, cold wind that I couldn’t bring myself to take the dog for a walk after lunch. I thought time spent in the backyard would be enough for him. A big mistake. At ten, Liam is still an energetic dog, and late in the afternoon he pestered me as I tried to watch Shakespeare Uncovered and Ethan Hawke’s take on Macbeth.

I finally did take Liam for a walk—as supper was heating in the oven—and luck was on my side. The wind had stopped blowing, and the air was crisp rather than biting. The sky at dusk was a deep blue, and the rising moon glowed high over the horizon. A lovely walk, good for me as well as for the dog.

Even though spring might be late, progress has been made with the melting snow. Every day it goes down more, and the snow has pulled completely away from the road.

In sunny yards, there are bare patches of tan grass. Even in our yard, which is the last to lose snow on Narrows Pond Road, the driveway is bare, and the backyard has its own patch or two of tan grass.

On branches by the road, pussy willows have begun showing their soft little heads.

And tree buds are now easy to see against the blue sky.

Soon, I hope, the little swamp up the road will be free of ice, and the full-throated song of spring will swell at night. This cycle of renewal is always fresh and stirring, and every year I wait eagerly for the emergence of the peepers and the frogs.

Ah, printemps!