March...
March does not arrive quietly.
It comes with contradiction. The snow still lies deep in the woods, yet it no longer feels permanent. The sun lingers longer in the afternoon sky, and when it touches the frozen lake, it glints with something almost mischievous — as if winter itself is unsure of its authority. The air carries change now. Not warmth exactly. Not yet. But possibility. Morning light arrives earlier, spilling gold instead of silver. The blue of the sky feels wider, less guarded. On some afternoons, the snow softens just enough to sigh beneath your boots. On others, winter bares its teeth again, reminding us that departure takes time. March is not a season. It is a negotiation. Between thaw and freeze. Between patience and anticipation. Between who we have been and who we are becoming. Inside the wee cottage, the rituals remain — coffee warming my hands, the quiet hum of the stove, light stretching farther across the plank floors. But something is different. The stillness of February has shifted into motion. Drips begin to form at the edge of the roof. Icicles loosen their grip. Somewhere beneath the snow, water is beginning to remember how to run. This is the month of edges. Edges of ice. Edges of light. Edges of ourselves. March asks us to move — gently at first. To stretch toward what is calling. To trust that uncertainty is not chaos, but transformation in progress. The crows grow louder. The wind grows restless. The forest feels as though it is inhaling. Not yet spring. But no longer winter. March teaches us that change is rarely tidy. That thaw can be messy. That growth often begins in mud. It reminds us that becoming requires both courage and surrender — the courage to step forward, and the surrender to let go of what is dissolving. Steam rises from my mug. Water drips from the eaves. The light lingers. The year is waking now. So welcome, March. Teach us how to cross thresholds. How to stand in the in-between without fear. How to trust the thaw. May your winds clear what is stale. May your sunlight awaken what is ready. May your muddy paths remind us that forward motion is rarely pristine -- but it is always alive. “March is the month of expectation.” ~Emily Dickinson ~Wylddane |
 "A Spring Moment" (Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
|
March Days: The Night the Geese Returned...
"The Night the Geese Returned" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
|
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul.”
~Emily Dickinson
It began at 2:17 a.m.
Not with wind.
Not with storm.
But with sound.
Ethan stirred first.
From somewhere beyond the dark outline of the pines, beyond the sleeping stretch of Stillwater Gleam, came a distant murmur — low at first, like a dream threading through the trees.
Then louder.
Layered.
Alive.
Honk-honk… ahonk… ahonk…
Bear’s head lifted from the braided rug, one blue eye opening, then the other. Isabel, tucked deep in the fold of Ethan’s blanket, froze mid-stretch. Outside, from her perch in the old white pine, Ragnhilde gave a sharp, knowing caw.
Ethan swung his legs out of bed and padded to the window.
The sky was moving.
Against a charcoal backdrop of lingering winter stars, shadows crossed the moon — long ribbons, shifting and reforming. A V appeared. Then another. Then ten more, slicing south to north.
Canadian geese.
Behind them, higher, brighter against the starlight — the wavering shimmer of snow geese, their bodies catching the faintest glint of moonlight like drifting embers.
The sound deepened, echoing across the frozen lake, filling Lone Pine with wild conversation.
Doors opened up and down the quiet road.
At Liam’s cottage, Mabel barked once — sharp and delighted — before Liam stepped out onto his porch, pulling on his wool cap. He laughed aloud, breath rising in silver plumes.
“They’re back, girl,” he whispered.
At Bean & Birch, Maren texted Lucy before her feet even touched the floor:
You hear that?
Lucy replied instantly:
Meet at the Gleam at sunrise.
By the time dawn pressed a pale seam of gold against the horizon, half the village stood along the snowy shore of Stillwater Gleam.
Erica wrapped in her red scarf.
Tom with a thermos.
Sam and Martha shoulder to shoulder.
Toby half-grinning like a boy who had waited all winter for this exact morning.
And me — mug in hand, steam curling upward like a quiet offering.
The sky had lightened to pearl and blue-gray. Puffy clouds drifted low and soft, as if they too had come to witness.
Then they came.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
The formations shifted and folded like living calligraphy. Wings flashed silver. The air pulsed with sound — not chaotic, but communal. A gathering. A return. A declaration.
They circled once.
Twice.
Then, one by one, in wide spirals, they descended.
The ice on Stillwater Gleam was no longer solid from shore to shore. A dark oval of open water had formed in the center — a quiet promise of thaw.
The first geese touched down there, skidding and splashing, voices triumphant.
More followed.
Snow geese swirled like wind-tossed petals before settling into the widening patch of meltwater.
Bear barked once in pure joy before Ethan gently rested a hand on his collar. Isabel peeked from the safety of the stomach pack, eyes wide and glowing. Ragnhilde swooped lower than usual, circling the gathering with approving authority.
Liam clapped Toby on the shoulder.
Maren wiped at her eyes without apology.
Lucy laughed — bright and unrestrained.
Because everyone knew.
This was the turning.
Not calendar spring.
Not yet.
But true spring.
Wild spring.
Winged spring.
Someone — perhaps it was me — said, “Coffee at Bean & Birch. We celebrate.”
And so they did.
Boots thudded against wooden floors. Coats dripped melting frost. The windows filled with light. Outside, the sky remained busy with motion.
Inside, conversation rose just as joyfully.
Plans for gardens.
Talk of docks soon to be uncovered.
Speculation about robins.
Stories of winters past.
And through it all — laughter.
The geese had returned.
And with them, something inside each of us had loosened too.
Later, as the morning grew fully bright, Ethan stood once more at the lake’s edge with Bear, Isabel, and Ragnhilde nearby. Liam and Mabel lingered a short distance away.
The sky was no longer restless.
It was settled.
Alive.
The lake spoke in ripples instead of silence.
Ethan smiled.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
And the geese answered.
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning the sky is clear and light, brushed with puffy gray clouds drifting lazily above the trees. A hint of gold rests along the horizon like a quiet promise.
My steaming mug of deliciousness warms my hands.
Vivaldi’s Spring from The Four Seasons fills the cottage — bright, buoyant, unmistakable. The violins skip like meltwater. The notes feel like wings.
Outside, the world is not fully thawed.
But it is no longer sleeping.
March has begun.
And so has the invitation.
Today — and this whole month — I want to carry this thought:
“Make it a habit to talk about blessings more than burdens.
When you spread positivity the Universe blesses you with even more blessings.
Close the window that triggers you, no matter how captivating it is.
Be disciplined about what you entertain.
Where your focus goes, energy flows.”
~Unknown
The geese returned in the night because that is what they do.
They do not debate the thaw.
They trust it.
They fly toward what calls them forward.
March asks the same of us.
To notice blessings.
To amplify light.
To choose what we allow into our inner sky.
We cannot control the winds.
But we can choose the direction of our attention.
Steam rises.
Music dances.
Light expands.
And so this wonderful month begins.
May we speak of blessings more than burdens.
May we close the windows that darken us.
May we open wide to what is returning.
The sky is alive.
Let us be, too.
~Wylddane
That perches in the soul.”
~Emily Dickinson
It began at 2:17 a.m.
Not with wind.
Not with storm.
But with sound.
Ethan stirred first.
From somewhere beyond the dark outline of the pines, beyond the sleeping stretch of Stillwater Gleam, came a distant murmur — low at first, like a dream threading through the trees.
Then louder.
Layered.
Alive.
Honk-honk… ahonk… ahonk…
Bear’s head lifted from the braided rug, one blue eye opening, then the other. Isabel, tucked deep in the fold of Ethan’s blanket, froze mid-stretch. Outside, from her perch in the old white pine, Ragnhilde gave a sharp, knowing caw.
Ethan swung his legs out of bed and padded to the window.
The sky was moving.
Against a charcoal backdrop of lingering winter stars, shadows crossed the moon — long ribbons, shifting and reforming. A V appeared. Then another. Then ten more, slicing south to north.
Canadian geese.
Behind them, higher, brighter against the starlight — the wavering shimmer of snow geese, their bodies catching the faintest glint of moonlight like drifting embers.
The sound deepened, echoing across the frozen lake, filling Lone Pine with wild conversation.
Doors opened up and down the quiet road.
At Liam’s cottage, Mabel barked once — sharp and delighted — before Liam stepped out onto his porch, pulling on his wool cap. He laughed aloud, breath rising in silver plumes.
“They’re back, girl,” he whispered.
At Bean & Birch, Maren texted Lucy before her feet even touched the floor:
You hear that?
Lucy replied instantly:
Meet at the Gleam at sunrise.
By the time dawn pressed a pale seam of gold against the horizon, half the village stood along the snowy shore of Stillwater Gleam.
Erica wrapped in her red scarf.
Tom with a thermos.
Sam and Martha shoulder to shoulder.
Toby half-grinning like a boy who had waited all winter for this exact morning.
And me — mug in hand, steam curling upward like a quiet offering.
The sky had lightened to pearl and blue-gray. Puffy clouds drifted low and soft, as if they too had come to witness.
Then they came.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
The formations shifted and folded like living calligraphy. Wings flashed silver. The air pulsed with sound — not chaotic, but communal. A gathering. A return. A declaration.
They circled once.
Twice.
Then, one by one, in wide spirals, they descended.
The ice on Stillwater Gleam was no longer solid from shore to shore. A dark oval of open water had formed in the center — a quiet promise of thaw.
The first geese touched down there, skidding and splashing, voices triumphant.
More followed.
Snow geese swirled like wind-tossed petals before settling into the widening patch of meltwater.
Bear barked once in pure joy before Ethan gently rested a hand on his collar. Isabel peeked from the safety of the stomach pack, eyes wide and glowing. Ragnhilde swooped lower than usual, circling the gathering with approving authority.
Liam clapped Toby on the shoulder.
Maren wiped at her eyes without apology.
Lucy laughed — bright and unrestrained.
Because everyone knew.
This was the turning.
Not calendar spring.
Not yet.
But true spring.
Wild spring.
Winged spring.
Someone — perhaps it was me — said, “Coffee at Bean & Birch. We celebrate.”
And so they did.
Boots thudded against wooden floors. Coats dripped melting frost. The windows filled with light. Outside, the sky remained busy with motion.
Inside, conversation rose just as joyfully.
Plans for gardens.
Talk of docks soon to be uncovered.
Speculation about robins.
Stories of winters past.
And through it all — laughter.
The geese had returned.
And with them, something inside each of us had loosened too.
Later, as the morning grew fully bright, Ethan stood once more at the lake’s edge with Bear, Isabel, and Ragnhilde nearby. Liam and Mabel lingered a short distance away.
The sky was no longer restless.
It was settled.
Alive.
The lake spoke in ripples instead of silence.
Ethan smiled.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
And the geese answered.
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning the sky is clear and light, brushed with puffy gray clouds drifting lazily above the trees. A hint of gold rests along the horizon like a quiet promise.
My steaming mug of deliciousness warms my hands.
Vivaldi’s Spring from The Four Seasons fills the cottage — bright, buoyant, unmistakable. The violins skip like meltwater. The notes feel like wings.
Outside, the world is not fully thawed.
But it is no longer sleeping.
March has begun.
And so has the invitation.
Today — and this whole month — I want to carry this thought:
“Make it a habit to talk about blessings more than burdens.
When you spread positivity the Universe blesses you with even more blessings.
Close the window that triggers you, no matter how captivating it is.
Be disciplined about what you entertain.
Where your focus goes, energy flows.”
~Unknown
The geese returned in the night because that is what they do.
They do not debate the thaw.
They trust it.
They fly toward what calls them forward.
March asks the same of us.
To notice blessings.
To amplify light.
To choose what we allow into our inner sky.
We cannot control the winds.
But we can choose the direction of our attention.
Steam rises.
Music dances.
Light expands.
And so this wonderful month begins.
May we speak of blessings more than burdens.
May we close the windows that darken us.
May we open wide to what is returning.
The sky is alive.
Let us be, too.
~Wylddane