Last Crack at the Garden

Who would've thought? The Garden was long ago put to bed, the vulnerable shrubs and trees, roses and hibiscus, rhododendrons and tree peonies lovingly covered for winter protection, the grass mowed for the last time, the spring bulbs planted with hope for the coming spring, the garden pots assembled, cleaned and stored, winter-crack-potential immovable-urns covered and garden beds and borders overlaid with compost, awaiting their further blanket of snow for winter's duration.

But today we had full sun after weeks and weeks of overcast skies and too-abundant rain. Although we barely reached temperatures above freezing, there was no wind and upon venturing out into the back gardens I could hardly believe how warm and wonderful it was. On impulse I broke the inch-thick ice in the birdbath and then emptied it of its water with the intention of letting the sun dry the black slime that loves to gather in the bowl of the birdbath when water hasn't been exchanged.

Then I trod on the garden bed itself: hard, frozen, with bits of ice embedded in it from all the rain. Opportunity knocked, I was able to walk on the garden soil without disturbing any of the sleeping plants, and I had room to move about without the interference of lush green growing things, giving me the space to pull unwanted weeds I was never able to reach, and grasses growing through the fence from the backyard beyond into my garden border.

The frozen soil refused to yield at first to the importuning of my steel spade, but it relented, eventually, and gave up hosting the grasses, the weeds, the red clover, the wild conquefoil, and yellow loosestrife I no longer wished to give place in my garden, along with some evening primrose and violets that were infringing on the spaces devoted to more elevated plant species.

Ah, the glory of it! The joy of being out there once more. The cold around me barely penetrated, I felt fulfilled and happy, preparing the garden beds and borders, including the rock garden for the coming season in full style, sans sneaky grasses, well-rooted clovers. And look here! Lots of mature hens-'n-chicks to spread about in areas bereft of growth where the clover had taken possession.

Oops, where did that chickadee come from, and why is the little thing settling into the bowl of the birdbath, now when there is nothing for it to drink? It wouldn't, in any event, have been able to penetrate the now-absent ice to the water below, and has only to spread its wings again into the nearby ravine and the creek below to satisfy its need. Why do I feel so badly for it? It is, after all, a creature of the boreal forest and it knows its way around winter.

Satisfaction to last me through the winter months.