SUNDAY MORNING COMING DOWN - February 12, 2018

After twenty-eight days of rain, the sun is shining! Not just wan winter sun but the sunball of a child's drawing haloed by rays that glistened against an indigo sky. There is warmth, too, enough to sit outdoors at the river's edge and let my skin drink in vitamin D. I always suffer from spring fever in February and usually a trip to the greenhouse cures my ills. However, I recall one year when my railway gang was working in Nipigon, I had such a case of cabin fever that I set off for a drive in the sunshine. I stopped at Kama Hill to admire the view, and enticed by the thirst for sun on my skin, I hiked to a protected bank and scooped out a nest where I lay back on my parka and sunbathed. I've often wondered when the weather channel showed Vancouverites lolling on the grass in February sunshine, if the wind was cold as on a Thunder Bay spring day. The answer is no; though cooler than on a rainy day, the breeze has none of the bite that wafts up from the frozen surface of Lake Superior in April.

Our river has shrunk back within its banks and a flotilla of mallard ducks pass by paddling hard against the current and pausing in the backwater to upend and comb the sandy bottom for roots exposed by the flood. One drake leads the group and quacks as loudly like any barnyard fowl when he wants to move on.

There are year-round resident black-chinned hummingbirds everywhere; flitting around the feeders, preening on the branch tips, socializing in the evergreens and guarding their territories. The males are so protective that they often escort me as I'm walking by flying from tree to tree and making loud clicking calls. The blackberry hedge rows quiver with activity and sound. Many birdcalls are unfamiliar to me and the Cornell bird song app is a handy tool to identify Beckwicks wren, brown creeper, Oregon junco, house finch, Stellar jay and chestnut-backed chickadee. From my seat in a lawn chair, I use old technology - binoculars - to watch the trees and shrubs about me referring to the bird guide in my lap for confirmation.

All things green are springing to life after their winter rest. Grass curls up about my sandals as I walk in the field above the river and the first sunny dandelion blooms on the south-facing slope. Along the forest edge, the tiny white blossoms of Indian plum open amid a whorl of unfurling leaves attracting a bee that hums past me in its hurry to feed.

The humans in the trailer park are celebrating the sunny day also as motorcycles are taken out for a spin, windows are washed, perennials trimmed and gardens raked and mulched. Where vinca vine spills over a rock wall, its periwinkle-blue flowers open to the warmth and day lilies shoot up beside the duck pond and along the driveways. Planters and window boxes on the trailers sprout tufts of daffodils and bright posies of primroses and winter pansies, and beside one porch flowers a pale pink azalea. To be in British Columbia to see the rhododendrons, azaleas and cherry blossoms has long been on my wish list, so I am very happy!

At ten tonight I walk the dog with only a wool vest over my blouse and soft-soled slippers on my feet. The air underneath the cloudless sky is the cold crispness of a Thunder Bay September eve while above me the constellation Orion stands guard in the sky just as he does in Northwestern Ontario. There will be frost tonight with a low of -3C. I planted the Norfolk Island pine (Auricaria heterophylla) we bought as a Christmas tree in my sister-law's garden, so I hope it has had time to acclimate before the first 'cold' night. A closely related ornamental tree grown in British Columbia is named the monkey puzzle tree (auricaria auricana) and I'm eager to see if our little potted plant might have another life.

Goodnight from the Pacific Northwest.

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