March, not April, is the cruelest month. Predators teeter between feast and famine. Feast during days and nights above freezing as voles leave their flooded grass-level tunnels and run across the snow to higher ground. Then days of ice and hunger, before the next thaw. The thaws are glorious. All life catches a minute to bask in the sun, and we listen for the first red-winged blackbird, the first song sparrow!
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