Three streams ran all winter under the part of the road that I walk regularly. The music of falling water echoed under the covering of snow and ice. The volume of water ebbed and flowed with the few thaws and rains we got in late winter. The change in volume was visible in a stream above the escarpment where a layer of ice clung to the bank ten centimeters above the level the water then flowed. I was surprised it had changed that much in just two days. A few days later, the whole stream was again covered in ice.

Where I live, there has not been much ice on the bay. On very cold days, balls of slush formed. Pushed against the shore and each other, these packs of watery ice grew larger. Eventually, they formed a shelf of ice that reached two meters out from the shore in places. When the waves increased, inlets formed where slightly warmer water swirled, melting and shaping the shelf.

On a few cold still days, a layer of ice formed on the surface of the bay, reaching well out from the shore. Other years, this layer has grown to be several centimeters thick, supporting the weight of the fox who wanted to get closer to the ducks on the water. This year, the bay is too warm for that. As soon as the wind picked up just a little, the movement of the water melted the ice.

On the streams though, snow and ice built up, totally encasing them. Only the sound of water falling over the rocks, a hollow sounding echo, reminded us of the presence of a stream.

As the weather warmed, holes developed in the streams' casing. Dark water could again be seen. As snow melted above, the stream gushed, washing away the remaining ice and snow above the water and around it. With warmth and sun this week, new streams have appeared. Water trickled down the hill, filtered into the cracks in the limestone, appearing as a stream farther down. Rivulets formed in low places, pouring into the ditch by the road.

As it sought the bay, the water gurgled over rocks, through culverts under laneways, finding the drains under the road. As I walk, there are new sounds: the roar of the larger streams and the gurgle of the trickling ones. It is early spring though and there are spaces of silence. In the ditches, there are spots where there is no slope. Here, the water in the ditch appears absolutely still. It seems to rest in these in between spaces.

Above the escarpment, one can see where these streams come from. Dark pools began to appear around a few of the trees. In low places on the paths, the snow was a little slushy. Where ice forms overnight, there is a crack as I step on it, and it breaks.

Overhead, pairs of geese honk their way across the sky. On the water, the mallards are discussing the arrival of spring. In the trees, the cardinals are singing. Chickadees have shifted their warning cries to mating calls. A flock of grackles arrived, and suddenly the silent yard is full of sound.

Colour is also coming back. The first bare patches revealed green moss on rocks. The next, bright ferns. The grass is still a dull green, but a bit more sun will brighten it too. No sign of flowers yet, but pussy willows have started to push out its catkins, a sign that other trees will leaf out soon. Not too soon, I hope. Maple syrup season needs to go on a little bit longer.

Winter is white and silent. So far, the sea gulls are maintaining their winter silence. But spring is underway. Soon, bulbs will burst through the ground and the gulls will call announcing winter is over.

Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway Nation