Saturday morning I went to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens to take a course with Robert Herold on planting a backyard vineyard. When I arrived, I was terribly disappointed to find out that the class had been canceled. The security guard suggested that I assuage my disappointment by checking out the gardens. (He probably used different words and he had a charming West Indies accent, but I can't remember how he phrased it now.)
If I had cross-country skis, and if they allowed it, this would have been the perfect activity. The snow-covered grounds were so open and flawless. They were also inspiring for spring plantings. When the garden fever hits, everyone visits the gardens and then wants lilacs, cherry trees and quince bushes. But this time of year, when plump thrushes are feeding in the winterberry trees, and the evergreens and witchhazels are really shining, a person has to rethink their planting.
At one point, a young hawk flew right over my head. It reminded me of when I tried to teach myself how to cross country ski one early spring in Alaska. I found some old skis in the shed of the cabin I was renting and headed to a hillside. The snow had a slick, icy coating and I fell over and over. At one point, while sprawled out, I looked up and saw two bald eagles and two hawks circling above me. At first I considered it majestic, until I realized that they thought I was an injured mammal and were waiting for me to go down for good.