It’s February, and like a child who can’t wait for Christmas, I revisit old hiding places in search of treasure. Wandering my gardens, I poke the toe of my shoe through glistening brown leaves to reveal bright green daffodil tips. In my journal, I record the exact date when tiny Snowdrops bloom. Sometimes I discover them (and show them to my husband) by flashlight.
As the water temperature of our fish pond rises, our koi swim sluggishly in search of food. High above, arrowheads of geese sail northward. Bluebirds begin to chitter again. Flying insects, spiders and ants become unlikely reasons for me to rejoice. And so, whether the days of February are warm or ice-covered, I will jubilantly proclaim to anyone - and everyone - “Spring is coming! Spring is almost here!”
Meanwhile, near a brush pile in Parkville, a squat, shadowy figure emerges after four months of profound hibernation. Twenty-six inches long but several pounds lighter, it waddles from its forest-edge den towards a stream bank in search of delicate greenery. As February days get warmer, the groundhog -- also called woodchuck, marmot or whistle-pig -- increasingly spends its time grazing, sunning and preening itself in small vegetated clearings. If alarmed, the “whistle-pig” gives a loud, shrill whistle and retreats to its den.
Groundhogs have a circannual (biological) clock that wakes them from hibernation, but emergence from the den depends on average daily temperature. Thus the groundhog became our long-range weather prophet.
Will the groundhog see his shadow and retreat back into his den this month? Do I have to be patient until late March -- or is Spring truly around the corner? On cold nights before Springtime I’m snug in my bed, but snowdrops and whistle-pigs dance in my head.
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