As the snow continues to fall in the middle of this “snow event” I am listening to a wonderful chorus by a little bird chirping by my chimney.  It’s probably sitting on the branches of my forsythia bush as it provides a lovely accompaniment to the flurries floating to the garden patch below it.  Somewhere deep beneath the ground the roots probably want to know, “Was yesterday’s warm glow a true promise of spring, or just a peek? Why are these snowy drops icing my tips?”

Dusty is rolling about on the carpet at my feet, intent on drying the remaining bits of snow from his back and belly.  Despite having a neatly cleared trail before him, he pounced about in the snow like a little rabbit, he snuck through the rose bushes, circled round the fire pit and flung himself towards the snow-covered leaf piles near the wolf willows.  So needless to say, when he was finally ready to go back inside, he had sported a pile of snow bundles hanging all over him.  His little whiskers had a white, smushy mess crusted on them, while his paw pads had crushed snow sticking firmly between them.

“Come here you little snowball,” I said as he gleefully jumped up for a quick toweling.  However, his idea of quick was even briefer than mine, and off he dashed down the hardwood floor and into the family room before I could even try to catch him.

So here we are. He’s rolling about with his snow bundles, as I sit by the fireplace being serenaded by a bird in the forsythia bush at the foot of our chimney. Outside my window all the spruce trees have that gorgeous look like gobs of white icing have been plopped onto a decorated Christmas scene.  Of course in December this would be a winter wonderland.  Today for some it might be misconstrued as a March mess.  To me it’s a gift in a moment in time, on a March day in Springbank, Alberta.

Hmmm… maybe I should turn on my dryer since we strategically planted the forsythia bush directly in front of the dryer vent.  This provides some blasts of warmth for my favourite spring bush to at least try to bloom its delicate yellow flowers.  I usually gratefully accept that the struggling blossoms on the bottom branches have come forth to take an opening bow, but provide only a short preview of what might happen.

Like Dusty, shaking off the snow bundles, I’ve decided to enjoy the March surprise.  I turn on my dryer; sending some pleasant breezes to surround the performance unfolding outside my laundry window, and then I settle back in my chair to listen to the concert.  I picture the forsythia’s blossom buds resting, as the snow bundles on the branches above, giving some sources of moisture to the roots below.  A cold and refreshing drink after a warm Chinook wind will probably send some encouragement below, some reassurance that March holds the coming of spring.

The song has ended, a simple reprise of intermittent chirps flows through the chimney walls.  Dusty has curled up in his bed for an afternoon nap.  There’s a lull in the snowfall, a silence beneath a snowy blanket.

Perhaps this is the premier of the colors of spring, a pure lusciously white snowfall, silencing the landscape, covering us with snow bundles.