I open the door and inhale the smell of thawing Earth and dry grass. The breeze carrying these scents is soft and warm, like the arm of a loved one draped affectionately across a shoulder. Birds are alight on the wind; their joyous chirrups resounding across the landscape.
I am dressed in a flannel top with a light vest and jeans tucked into rain boots. The sun on my back is strong as I traverse the steep slope leading down to the meadow. I can feel its rays through the thin fabric covering my shoulders. Subconsciously I run a hand over the back of my head, fingering the warmth my dark hair has absorbed.
Slush pressed out from beneath either side of my boots as I slog through the basin where winter snow has accumulated. It looks like a silver lake as it transitions back to its aqueous form. The ice below this layer is still thick atop the ground and my steps are methodical as I traverse this stretch. The terrain beyond the tundra feels sponge-like and soft below my feet and smells of sun-warmed hay. There are insects flitting in the air here, fluttering and hovering about, too minute in stature to be heard, but visible still.
I duck under a string of electric fencing and note how the terrain on this side of the paddock is already bare. The last of the snow has melted here and the grass from late summer lies in lumps, unmowed and toppled over, still frozen in place regardless of the warm temps today. I stop by the picnic table and sit with my face to the sun, my hands in my lap, and I sigh. It’s sixty degrees at the moment, but it feels closer to seventy in the still air.
I stretch my legs out in front of me, exposing their length to the strong rays of mid- afternoon. The warmth envelopes me like a plush blanket and for a moment I simply exist, casually converting oxygen.. Then, my guilt surfaces like a bubble from the depths of a shallow puddle. I remember that it is February; early February to be more precise and this heat, this blessed warmth, should not be here. A week ago today, it was negative degrees at 6 AM and warmed up to the single digits as the high. The following evening we received five inches of fresh snow and temps that remained cool enough for it to endure through yesterday.
The horse is lackadaisical in this unanticipated thaw; her thick coat clearly uncomfortable in this heat. While I can shed a layer, Panda does not have that luxury, so she slows her movement to keep her body cool. She is sluggish, reminding me of a reptile in early Spring or late Fall. The wellbeing of neither ectotherm nor endotherm is exempt to the risk of yo-yo temperatures and I am keeping an eye on my mare today, monitoring her just in case the unexpected heat interrupts her homeostasis. These substantial quadrupeds are no stronger than porcelain figurines when it comes to abrupt changes in the environment; an equines surprising vulnerability is often overshadowed by their magnitude.
I hate how much I love this respite from the cold of a traditional winter. More than that, I hate that I know to be mistrusting of this seasonally atypical interruption, rather than joyous of this otherwise lovely day. I wish that I could simply embrace this as a gift from the Universe after a period of frigidity and dark days… but I can’t. As much as I may indulge in the calescent rays upon my unlayered body, I am ill at ease while absorbing this long-sought dose of vitamin D.
I acknowledge the unnaturalness of a day that feels like May occurring months earlier than it should. I recognize the confusion it must spur in creatures reliant on consistent weather patterns. I am acutely aware that the insects I saw earlier should not be flittering about so soon and I worry that when broods are hatching in the coming months my feathered friends won’t be able to source enough invertebrates to offer their rapacious chicks.
My relaxed stature at the picnic table has bristled with these thoughts and I am no longer registering the pleasure of the sunbeams. Now I am regarding Panda’s pulsing sides, her breathing more rapid than usual while at rest. I’m observing snowmelt coursing in veins down the hillside and pooling in a shallow basin, unable to be absorbed because the soil is still frozen below. I am hearing ‘come hither’ birdsong from avians that should not be pairing up this early in the season, and I am feeling a familiar knot of worry developing at the base of my sternum. Indicative of something awry, it feels like an agitated serpent, twisting and rolling about below my ribs. “I hate how much I love you,” I whisper to the world.
I’m not sure if my subconscious utterance is in reference to the warmth of an unstable climate or rather my insight as to identifying it as such.