Just what is March anyway?

She asked me what I thought of March. Without hesitation I said that it was my favourite tempestuous month … the one when the lion roars at the forthcoming lamb, the one when the  west wind blows winter’s pursed lips into a smile. Then she smiled her thin-lipped broad, warm, smile. That smile, effortlessly flashed youthful mirth throughout  her octogenarian presence. Knowing something was “cooking” I asked her what she thought of March. “Well," she said, "To me it is like the theatre is about to open the three act dance "April May June”. Those acts just fly by, but in March the lighting crew come in and turn up the lights. Lights on, the curtains of snow are pulled back and the first flirtation of colour hits the stage: The willows turn yellowish green. The theatre is warming up and some of the actors are stretching their wings. You’ve seen them I am sure. The ones that linger or are the first to early open water. Grab a glimpse them before they leave winter  fields where the cover of snow is not too deep to hear mice below. You have to be sharp because March is gone in the wink of an eye and all of a sudden you are in the breathless performance of the dance "April May June”. So look smartly, listen carefully, and feel the stage door unlocking. That is what March is to me. But then what do I know? I am merely in the audience.”

Female Hooded Merganser