A woodpecker is drumming the dead elm in the valley bottom, as if it has been wound up on elastic, and let go. A skylark flutters up over the meadow in its first territorial song of the year, a kite on an invisible thread. 6 MARCH A buzzard flies over me with a twig in its mouth. More snow, which comes in stinging and horizontal from the north to lie in streaks on the red heather hair of the mountain. Even under the hedges, only the dog’s mercury can be bothered to flower (pallidly, at that) and the field returns to its winter sleep. Not quite. The badger has been digging up the dog’s mercury roots; it has also tried to break into the top of the warren, seeking the kittens in its hunger. At the close of the day I stand and listen to the wind scurrying over the surface of the white field. 9 MARCH The first primrose blossoms, through the dregs of snow, to sit enchanting by the Grove ditch, a guiding beacon for the sun. Primula vulgaris is the first plant to flower in the sward proper.
