True to form, March is coming in like a lion. The wind has been strong and wily in its ability to present against me in all situations. Truth be told, I can't remember my last windless ride. Temperatures and precipitation have not followed the annual script. Two weeks ago, I was momentarily disoriented by a sugarbush in Weston. Confused by how I could have missed so many buckets left past the sugaring season, I thought leaves must have obscured the view the last time I passed. I was on to the next stretch of road when it occurred to me that the freezing nights and warm days had started sap running.
And today! Today I caught a strong whiff of hyacinths. It brought to mind the last weeks of August, when the sticky, sweet smell of Concord grapes appear out of nowhere. Hyacinths seem extraordinarily unlikely, as crocuses have yet to emerge and the earliest daffodils, nestled in the southern pocket of stone walls, are only two or three inches up. Still, it was a bold visitation of Easter before the oily pall of Fasching has completely cleared the kitchen.
The spring classics may be very fast this year. Or at the very crowded.
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