Drifting

The wind is in some big hurry. Hell-bound to sweep every last dusting of snow off the rigid stubs of cornfields; more like wishful thinking as I focus on the tree line. Over there, beyond the hedgerows that hold down the ragged line of cedar rails, where I spot a snowy owl through the damp cold of sunrise. Not a songbird in sight, but the shriek through fence poles as the wind dances and swirls with the laughter of a court jester, just before charging at me without let-up, across the vacant pasture then tossing at my bones one more time with its arctic-bred gale.

Pleasant Bay, Weller’s Bay, East Lake and West; foxes on the move under starry skies of waxing moon—the latter now closest to the king planet Jupiter. Not that I’ve read any Roman calendars of late, but Martius— the moniker for Mars—is the original term for the month of March in Roman calendars. In fact, March was the first month on the calendar. And now, with the wind sniping at my forehead, I understand how Mars became the god of war to the Roman Empire— a society built on values of conquest, heroism and battle. Although I’m told it’s about being resolute to a way of life. Sheesh. I rather buy the other version.

Before being popularized as a warmonger, our friend Mars was the fertility and agricultural deity who, along with a band of other deities, oversaw the new growth of spring. See where I’m headed here? Think continuation of life for human, plant and animal realms.

And over there in the distance, the alder tree is a March icon. The alder bushes that make up the wind row, in most cases, produces multiple trunks: as in many bodies within one body, therefore garnering strength from more than one foundation of our lives. The ash tree is another symbol of March—incredibly strong and a ravenous grower. Speaking of which, notice in your backyard, the hare tracks all of a sudden? They are all over my place with scatting every three paces. Rabbit starts its courtship ritual, yep, right there in your backyard. Before we get too far along in the month we’ll be talking symbols of eggs and fertility and the daffodil—the trumpetshaped flower heralding spring—and, oh yes, the shamrock, remarkable survivor and symbol of the fighting Irish and their Catholic hero, Saint Patrick.

Meanwhile I’m feeling madder than a March hare. To-and-fro my home as I care for my dad in Ottawa. Feeling more like my much-missed Cabot, my half water-spaniel, half-Newfoundland dog who would turn in circle-after-dizzying-circle trying to make his bed—usually on mine—until he finally scrunched down with a harrumph before drifting off to dreamland. Then just try and move him. I’m still waiting to get to the scrunching and harrumph part as time these days is spent on the road, neither in Ottawa where my father lives nor along Slab Creek here in the County where my heart is, and where I rest best. But then again, we no longer have to heed the Ides of March—Idus Marti—that foretold the assassination of Julius Caesar in 44BC and saw an end to the historical period—the Roman republic—and the rise of the Roman Empire. Nope. Ides no more.

My recommendation is to pay attention to neither Farmers’ Almanac nor weather channel and just hunker down with the new seed catalogues or seedand- bulb display racks in the stores if you want to stay calm and hold to the hope of spring.

The snow plow just scraped and rattled by on Scoharie Road, blue lights flashing, while slinging one of those monster-snowdrifts off the road with a knockout punch of the blade. I’m assuming the Romans never met up with a snowplow, otherwise it would have become a deity to outdo Mars. But just in case the drift should rise again, I’ll not be sticking around ’til the count of 10. I’ll pull my fur hat to my nose and dream of spring gardens and sing the song of the poet Kahil Gibran: March on. Do not tarry. To go forward is to move toward perfection.