Sprigs of Spring
I pounded three t-posts into the still-frozen ground last week, celebrating spring with each slam of my post-pounder.
The sheep had laid flat this section of fence, breaking the old wooden posts as they stretched their necks through barbed wire, toward sprigs of green.
I could fix it because the icy snowdrift that had buried the bottom two feet of the fence for most of the winter had disappeared.
The horrified sheep circled their authorized pasture like a hoard of shoppers heading for the 80% off, Black Friday sale for big-screen TVs, frantically seeking a secret route to the back of the store.
Like my sheep, I seek green sprigs popping up through the dark bare ground.
My haystack shrinks daily.
I have never had to stretch a paycheck until the end of the month, hoping the refrigerator will still have eggs on April 30, but I’m stretching my haystack.
I have enough to last if spring comes soon.
Barely.
I’m supplementing my haystack with caramelized old hay that has been a windbreak around my house for several years.
I need to replace those windbreaks anyway.
I’m mixing less nutritious grass hay with highly nutritious second-cutting alfalfa to keep the mama cow giving plenty of milk to their demanding new calves.
The calves must be getting enough.
I spot them sleeping in a pack, one raises her head in the warm sunshine, then stands. The others follow. Suddenly, the entire pack races across the prairie, tails raised in the air, hooves flying all directions, coats glistening in the sun.
My cows, yearlings and sheep look healthy, too.
The sheep shearers came a couple of weeks ago to reveal the truth disguised under the wool.
Wool hides a lot of flaws, smooths over bony frames and ribs.
Shearing revealed big bellies, full of lambs that will soon follow the calves across the pasture.
Bony frames and ribs were still covered by fat and muscle.
I smiled with relief.
Winter came with a cold vengeance last December and temperatures have been achingly slow to warm.
T-shirts in my bottom drawer gather dust while I layer on another clean set of long johns.
Town people talk about such a long winter even though cold temperatures typically last from December to April.
That’s why crocuses, daffodils and songs of meadowlarks bring so much joy.
No curlews have arrived yet to announce the official arrival of spring, but the snow flurries are getting shorter.
The mud is drying on the hillsides. I’ll need to fill in the ruts on my driveway soon.
Friends helped me lay out my zigzags of old wooden posts along the driveway so visitors refrain from driving around puddles and onto the fragile grass.
After all, this is A Land of Grass, not A Land of Smooth Driving.
I splash through the runoff cascading down the coulees, shoveling a trench here or a water-bar there to direct the flow across new grass and away from the driveway.
Something about directing water warms my beaver soul.
Another must-do springtime job is hauling my garbage to the dump before the grizzly bears arrive.
They are awake and usually the teenage bears begin meandering across the prairie about now.
Teenagers who don’t meander face older territorial bears who don’t mind starting turf wars.
I need them to meander somewhere besides my garbage cans.
I’ll sing as I haul my garbage to the dump, knowing that although those teenagers might cause a disaster, they are acting like normal bears, knowing that the green tinge of fragile grass brings normal spring jobs not the hang-by-my-fingernails wait for dust to turn to mud, knowing we’re going to make it.