Ah...Groundhog Day, and according to what I can see, Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow in the little village in Pennsylvania that carries his name, so winter will continue its frigid grip on us well into March. I'm also wondering if Richard Sherman will see the shadows or hear the pounding footsteps of Orlando Franklin or Chris Clark as they converge on his cocky self to plow him into the permafrost of MetLife Stadium.
Back to the weather, the NOAA tends to agree with Phil, at least as far as the Northeast is concerned, with the Southeast tending toward a slow transition to spring.
At the farm this morning, I saw no groundhogs (nor possums or skunks for that matter) but I did hear what I consider an early warning sign of spring. One solitary young frog singing somewhere between tenor and baritone, hesitating periodically in hopes of an answer from somewhere in the distance. I listened as closely as I'm sure he did, but his effort was not rewarded. I'm sure that he was looking for lovely soprano retort, either at his pond or the one in the other field (some things are worth hopping a half mile for). But, alas, as much as both he and I strained, there was no answer.
When the rain started, he quieted a moment, and some time later, he started in again. I left after awhile, but I like to think that eventually, he caught the sound of a feminine croak on the breeze. I have to give him kudos. It's a mite early in the year to begin courting but I'm going to bet that his efforts will pay off. And on a half moon humid night a few months from now, his baritone will be a full bass and he and dozen of other full grown frogs will provide percussion to the crickets' fiddling while his offspring polliwog in the shallows. Summer will be in full bloom and winter won't even be a passing thought. Richard Sherman will be getting his swerve on for summer camp and Punxsutawney Phil will be trying to find a cool place to take a nap.
Bullfrog trills a serenade
To the chilly pond.