In our yard and beyond, red maples have thrown off the somber cloak of winter and dressed their branches with flowers of red and white, the clustered blossoms tinging our northern Nova Scotia landscape with specks of fire. Willows have fluffed out their pussywillows catkins, and clumps of alder dangle rougher, sharp-edged catkins that make me think of silent windchimes or snatched bits of beaded curtains. Daffodils blaze lush and lemon or chaste and papery-white in my yard, offering the promise of spectacular bouquets I cannot yet bear to cut. The lawn has imbibed April’s showers and shot them into the air as rich, emerald swords. The air is alive with the sound of  birds, more of the migratory species appearing each day and thrilling me with their music. Deer stroll like princes, with no more floundering in snow. The bark of wire birch now not lost in a landscape of white bears scars of a thousand cellulose stitches readily seen against the green. To Spring, I say! To May!