Sunday morning. Outside, it's warmer than it's been lately at this time of day. There's a chance of flurries, but the real snow and sleet won't be here till Monday or Tuesday. I've been thinking of the snowdrops, lying in wait under the crust, waiting for their cue to bloom. Often, in late February, I see them in front yards in this neighborhood, and then I kick myself for once again forgetting to plant them myself.

On Friday, during a walk in the cemetery, my neighbor and I spotted a pair of red-tailed hawks slowly drifting and circling in a patch of trees. Hawks begin nesting in late winter, so I suspect they were checking out the real estate. Certainly a city garden cemetery would be a fine place to raise a clutch of ravenous baby birds of prey: plenty of squirrels and pigeons, lots of big sturdy trees. Just a week before we'd seen the barred owl in Baxter Woods across the street. Last year our cemetery hosted a great horned owl nest, which got a lot of birders excited, and of course Central Park is a famously good place for spying on nesting falcons. I guess the raptors are adjusting well to urban conditions.

So many hawks and owls on the move: it must mean that spring is coming. We're already halfway through February, and the days are significantly longer. Really, this winter has gone by faster than I thought it would. I was dreading the dark season, isolated by winter and Covid, but already I am imagining gardens again, and the cat is sunning himself on the front stoop, and the sun is stretching his arms into the sky. By this time next month I could be outside picking up sticks, pruning winter-kill, emoting over the first crocus spikes.

Today, though, I'll be baking soft pretzels: a Valentine's offering to my boys. Otherwise, I don't have too many have-tos. I ended up spending a lot of yesterday working on Frost Place curriculum and planning, and today might involve some of that too. Or my Valentines might have a better idea about how I should spend my time. You'll recall that Tom gave me paving stones for my last birthday. And once I got a chicken house for Christmas. In this family, love-holidays are frequently constructional.