Winter has been loathe to give up its grip here, last week we had an inch and a half of snow followed by several days of below average temperature. At first, I was very upset about the cruel trick Mother Nature had played, but when I got to work and went down to say good morning to the ospreys, I discovered where a fox had made her rounds, and back tracked her for about a mile. I love tracking foxes, they are very no-nonsense, going from point A to point B in the straightest possible line, hind feet carefully placed in the tracks left by the front feet. Whenever she deviated from her straight line, it was to inspect a squirrel cache or sniff under a log. She also went down the bank and into the salt marsh, where I wouldn't follow - she may not sink into the muck, but I surely would. There is the carcass of a dead turkey down there and she may have paused for a snack.

Park visitors are often shocked at my attitude about dead things in the park. Many of them are visiting from Portland, Maine's largest city. Although it isn't very large in the general scheme of heavily populated areas, many of the people living there are out of touch with nature.They don't stop to think about the fact that death is a part of the cycle in nature. The turkey may be dead, and to humans unsightly and smelly, but it is a boon to many of the other creatures in our park. The gulls, the fox, the raccoon whose tracks were perfectly preserved in the mud until the tide came in, even the mice, all will benefit from that smelly, unsightly dead bird.

The woods were still brown, no wildflowers had dared poke their heads up when I left the park for my days off Saturday afternoon. But the sun has been shining, and the days have warmed considerably and there is the faintest hint of red to be seen in the tops of the red maples. They are the first to flower, rolling out the red carpet for the rest of the woodland wildflowers. The twigs of the red osier dogwood on the shore are brilliant red, a splash of color against a drab background. Soon, the fragrant, tiny blossoms of the mayflowers (or trailing arbutus, depends on who you talk to) will make their appearance. One has to get close to the ground to smell them, but it is oh-so-worth it.

Here at home, I am surrounded by lovely little ponds and marshes, most of which are home to frogs of all sorts. The wood frogs, frozen solid all winter, are awake and making their clacking calls that sound almost duck-like. The spring peepers have also started calling. They're not quite in full chorus yet, when they are, I can hear them in the house with the windows closed. The marsh is also home to a pair of redwing blackbirds, another sign of spring and their distinctive "konk-a-ree" is as welcome as the peepers' chorus.

Phoebes (a species of flycatcher) have been investigating the roof over my door as a possible nest site. They like nesting under eaves and other protected nooks and crannies on buildings. Although it could get messy if they do, I would welcome them. They are fun to watch, catching their prey on the wing, scolding poor Phoebe, whomever she might be, and sitting on branches and wires flicking their tails. And they eat insects, always a plus. Other birds provide spots of color in the trees about the property. A bright red male cardinal sitting in the top of the biggest pine tree singing "cheer, cheer, cheer". Bluebirds flitting about, sometimes landing on the wires attached to the cottage right outside my windows, to my great delight. American robins with their rusty red breasts pulling worms out of the ground in the field behind the house. Occasionally a hairy woodpecker will visit one of the ancient sugar maples, looking for insects under the bark, his spot of red on the top of his head a contrast to his black-and-white body. The wee chickadees, looking similar to your coal tits, hardy little year-round residents, males now making their two-note whistle in addition to their "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" call. I love all the birds, but I have a special fondness for the chickadees. Other favorites are the crow family, who come and visit the compost pile every morning, and the ravens, who call from the woods behind the field.

The deer in the park fell victim to the coyotes this past winter. It doesn't bother me, coyotes need to eat, too, and like the turkey, others have benefited from their death. However, there are still plenty near my cottage. I had to stop the car to allow five of them to cross the road only a few hundred feet from the cottage. They are graceful creatures, and beautiful to watch, with large ears, long legs, and their distinctive tails, as long as my arm from fingertips to elbow, white on the underside, used to signal the alarm. That white flag is unmistakable and is what gives them their name: white-tailed deer.

More later, when spring progresses a bit more.