First there was a random drip, drip, pause, and drip just outside the back door as the growing warmth in the sun melted the snow that still clung to the roof. At the end of the eaves trough spout, a rippled icicle grew as the water ran and then froze in the cold air. A tiny hole in the trough allowed another drip right onto the back step where the cold cement instantly turned the melt to ice, a hazardous sign of spring that I have come to expect.

No birds came to the feeder, which made me go and check. Chickadees and blue jays ate there all winter, but it had been emptied by the recent influx of juncos and sparrows. I refilled it for the migrators who will pass through soon.

Now, on the lane, mourning doves are cooing to each other, preening and posturing. Two red-tailed hawks fly a weaving dance over the swamp preparing for spring nesting. A red-winged blackbird trills from the bare butternut tree and is answered by another over near our neighbour's house.

Rabbits have come out of hibernation. Lots of them. They peer from the forsythia in our front yard, move beneath the shelter of the spruce trees. Our house cat races from one window ledge to the other trying to keep track of what they are up to. Our barn cats venture farther and farther from the shelter of their home to hunt in the flat grass.

In the windows of the house and near the lights, a buzz sounds. It stops and then comes again. Cluster flies are waking up, finding themselves stuck on their backs, trying to get moving. Soon, they find their legs and their wings, and the windows are crawling with little black creatures who are longing to get outside. I take out a screen and open the window to let them go.

This year, an interesting long legged insect laid eggs somewhere in the wall of the house and a few of its offspring have found a way in. I hope most find the way out, but one elegant grey creature appreciated the light of my computer screen.

The sudden abundance of spiders I have swept away. And I am watching for the garter snake that most years finds in our walls a warm place to hibernate. If it came in last winter, it will wake soon.

The pond level has risen to the top of the culvert under the lane, and it stretches well into the remains of last year's cattails. There is still a layer of ice on the water, so it is not yet time for the spring peepers to sing. I am waiting for their music and the deep base voices of the bull frogs.

The slope of the front lawn has been bare for a week, but that is not so surprising: wind can blow it clear even in mid-winter. More surprising is the bare pasture with just one small bank of snow over by the fence row.

Now that the snow is gone, I can see the gravel that I threw up on the lawn with the snow blower. It needs raking. Our lane is a mess of potholes and mud. It needs scraping. But can I risk taking the snow blower off the big tractor? I could get out the extension cord and charge up the loader tractor that has rested all winter. It might start when the temperature hits double digits in the afternoon.

One patch of crocuses appeared, so there is a splash of purple in the yard. The rest is still grey and brown. But the signs are all there: green is coming.

Snow melt and warm temperatures are early this year. The speed of the melt has been a shock and a surprise. Bare ground should not come so quickly. But as a result, some of spring's new life is already here. The rest of the colour will come in its own time.

For me, spring embodies the promise of Easter. Eventually, there will be sun-bright forsythia and perfumed lilac, a full blown resurrection of creation. But the promise is there even in the hint of warmth that barely melts the snow making a long rippling icicle that waits to become water.

Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister and writer living near Walters Falls.