Orion Descending

Spring officially arrived around 3:30 p.m., Sunday. With a chill wind blowing from the northwest and high clouds overhead, you can’t blame a lot of people for not noticing.

Still, the intensity of Monday’s sunlight brought hope that at last there just might be some warmer days ahead. And, the depth of ice covering area ponds and lakes not withstanding, I discovered another sign of renewal, as well.

I recall a time last October when the first clear, sharp autumn nights rekindled ancient apprehensions of the dark months ahead. Low in the east, late, late at night, I watched the the constellation Orion trace an arc above the dark silhouette of Cadillac Mountain. The stars of Orion’s outstretched arms signaled a hurrah for the coming cold.

Orion’s prominence produced a flood of silent thoughts.

Would this winter be a long one? Would the oil and wood hold out? Would everyone make it through mentally, physically, and financially unscathed? Who would still be here and be strong come spring? And, sadly, who might not?

Through November, as the cold completed its conquest and refused to budge from the land, Orion rose earlier and earlier each night until it came to dominate winter’s vault of stars.

Through January and February, Orion watched silently from straight above. Here was a winter that equalled in fact those of fancy — a winter whose severity was finally akin to those inflated over years of retelling.

There was snow aplenty — 16 storms’ worth. Lakes lay entombed in thick, unyielding ice. All living things shivered through bone-numbing, sub-zero, tree-snapping cold for days and days at a stretch.

Soon, only one question remained. When will spring finally arrive?

Outside on Sunday evening, the first official dusk of spring, cold still  nipped at ungloved fingertips.

Undaunted, my senses searched for signs of spring. There was no heady aroma of freshly thawed earth, only the crunch underfoot of gravel furrowed with long crystals of new evening ice.

Ears strained but there was no welcome chorus of peepers, whose songs herald an ephemeral fire of life brought forth, as if by magic, in tiny forest puddles.

Eyes traced the flare of a shooting star but longed to see the V of Canada geese on their journey north.

I turned, disheartened, for home, to seek for yet another night, the warmth of a granite hearth.

It was then that I spied my sign, low in the western sky. There, sinking, just to the left of a brilliant crescent moon, was the great giant that once ruled the winter night. I stood for a time and watched Orion descending. But now, his power over the night nearly gone, his upraised arms seemed to send a defiant signal — perhaps a lonely last call for retreat to the forces of winter’s occupation.