The lake is still frozen, the surface turning darker by the day waiting for the ice to honeycomb and sink. It reminds me of the remarkable images from the Artemis mission to the moon of the craters, swales and pockmarks of its blackened surface.

Last weekend, when it was 20 degrees, I was in my shorts raking the leaves out of the garden beds when I looked down and saw a big dark brown object on the ice.

At first, I thought we had left a pair of pants or jacket on the ice, but then realized it was an otter who had leaped out of one of our ice fishing holes and was feasting on a rather large fish. The otter was huge, the size of a small seal and was gulping the fish down leaving a splatter of blood on the ice. The incongruity of watching an otter eat a fish on the ice while I was raking leaves in my shorts wasn’t lost on me. Spring in Canada.

As I dig in the garden, I see pink and pudgy worms, squirming in the sunshine, waking up from their long winter’s nap. If they could yawn and stretch their grubby bodies like a toddler, they would.

Tiny green shoots sprout up from beneath the pristine snow. Soon, my daffodils and tulips will erupt, flooding the yard with reds and yellows and pinks. The rain rejuvenates the buds and bulbs, washing away the weariness of winter.

We boil down the last of the sap from the six maple trees we tapped. I read somewhere that the sap will stop running when you hear the first spring peepers (frogs). We had pulled the buckets down the day before, and sure enough, on my walk with Bentley, I think I heard my first spring peeper. We’re getting good at this maple syrup thing even if we are amateurs (and even if we still spend $100 on propane to get about the same equivalent in maple syrup).

On Easter Sunday, I visit my friend at their family farm to help them sugar off. As we wait for the rich golden liquid to boil down to that perfect sticky consistency, I mention that we had taken the blade off our ATV. My friend Madeliene, the prophet, says, “Oh, so it’s your fault then?” referring to the endless winter we are having. Two days later, we are blanketed with another dump of snow. Superstition and snow run deep in these parts.

Back at home, I notice a large tree has fallen on the ice. It was an old poplar that had a large dead branch that jutted out over the lake, popular with the wood ducks and eagles when they came to visit. They will need to find a new perch this summer.

I hear and see the flocks of Canada geese flying home and the distinctive honk of the trumpeter swans who never left but are on the move. I finally see our heron—the first harbinger of spring. We hear the first croaky call of the lake’s town crier, the loon, announcing his triumphant return. His vocal chords are weak and out of practice after his long journey home.

Don’t be tricked by the robins and the groundhog. These are the true signs of spring. Or perhaps just spring musings on a rainy day.

The blackened surface of the ice on the lake is like the images of the moon from the recent Artemis mission

What I hope my garden will look like in a few weeks time