March is what you might call a temperamental month,  giving ample proof to the old chestnut that if you don’t like the weather in Maine, just wait a bit, and it will change. Yesterday morning, when I went out to get the mail, the weather was so mild and warm I decided that after lunch, I would poke around the yard, doing bits of clean-up. But the weather had other plans—thunder and rain. No yard work for me.

Last night, as Clif and I were watching Bosch, we heard a rapid patter against the house. Clif paused the show—we were watching it on Amazon Prime—and “That sounds like hail,” I said.  This morning when I looked outside, my suspicions were confirmed when I saw little ice balls scattered on the leaves around my garden.

The weather forecast for the next few days? More thunder and rain, and then the prediction that every Mainer dreads but expects this time of year—a major snowstorm on Sunday that will go into Monday. If we do get this storm, I can almost guarantee that the snow will be wet and heavy, and the possibility of a power outage rears its ugly head.

Ah, well. Our shovels are at the ready, and Clif will bring in some wood. I’ll be sure to fill my big pots with water because at the little house in the big woods, no power means no water. (We have a well.) And on Sunday, maybe I’ll make turkey soup and some biscuits. Then, if the snow comes we’ll have a big batch of comfort to get us through the storm.

In the meantime, I’ll listen to the male cardinal singing his spring song. Perhaps the dog and I will take a walk up the road to check if the pussy willows are in bloom. I’ll also check on the little swamp to see if the ice is out. If there is no ice, then the peepers will soon be singing their spring song, and this always lifts the spirits.

But snow, snow, stay away. Don’t come back until next winter.

February is back, and how glad I am to see it. Yesterday, we got four inches of light, fluffy snow that will be easy to clear. Readers will be happy to know that Clif and I came home from doing errands just as the first snowflakes started falling. While leftover soup heated, we put away our groceries and other sundry items. Then, as we ate our soup—spicy squash with chicken sausage—we watched the snow come down, down, down. So lovely to watch when you’re snug at home with a bowl of hot soup to eat.

As I have indicated in previous posts, I really like winter—December, January, and February. I was born in central Maine, in September, which means my earliest memories involve snow and cold. I can remember having my picture taken on the mailbox of our new house, the first for my parents, who came from poor families and were rightly proud of their little home. I must have been two or three, and I am bundled in a winter coat, mittens, and a brown fuzzy hat. I remember squinting because the sun was in my eyes, but I don’t remember feeling cold.

In fact, as a child, I do not ever remember feeling cold. My mother, who was very attentive, made sure I was warmly dressed, and out I went to play.  I skated, I went sliding, I dug snow caves, and I had snowball fights with other children in the neighborhood.  No doubt I came in with red cheeks, but I was never uncomfortable.

Even now, I do not mind the cold, and because of this, I love and appreciate the look of winter. This morning, after the little storm, our yard was filled with blue shadows and glittering snow.

Even our porch had blue-slanted shadows across it.

And, as Clif put it, the car looked like a marshmallow puff.

In the backyard, goldfinches crowded the feeder, and they twittered as they ate.

The clothesline will not be used for another few months, not until April, when I will happily begin hanging out quilts and blankets and the rest of our laundry.

Until then, I will enjoy the beauty of winter, the cold and the quiet and the blue shadows.

For me, the rural life in Maine is never boring.  From season to season, there is such variability—cold, snow, rain, flowers, green grass, leaves, blazing colors, austere brown, and then back to snow. Even within the same season, from day to day, there is change.

In the winter snow falls and then it melts. Leaves and spills are scattered everywhere, only to be covered up again by snow. The ice on the brook advances and recedes.  Always something new to look at and admire. Always something to photograph.

Here are some pictures from a recent walk in the woods.

Yesterday, Clif, Liam, and I walked along Brook Trail in the woods behind the high school. Winter has finally come to Maine, and we have had snow—not so much that we can’t walk in the woods, but enough to make the ground white with blue shadows.

In the winter, the woods are so quiet.  Gone are the summer songs of the birds, that exuberant  burst of life. Instead, there is the crunching of our feet as we walk on the snow. A squirrel scolds us as she rushes up a tree. In the distance, we can hear a woodpecker rat-a-tat-tatting on a tree and the answering rat-a-tat-tat of another woodpecker.

I love the woods in winter, the solemn stillness, the muted colors. On the trail we take, there is a side path that leads to Brook Trail, and here the quiet of winter is interrupted by running water that now has a skim of ice.

The other day, we met an acquaintance on the trail, and she said, “I come here as often as I can. I love to keep track of the progress of the ice on the brook.”

We do, too. I wonder if the brook will run all winter. Or, will we get a good cold snap where the brook freezes entirely? Clif and I will be going back today to check on the ice, and we’ll continue do so as long as the snow isn’t too deep.

Here are some pictures from yesterday’s walk.