The calendar reads May instead of March.
But yesterday the ground was finally dry enough to plant potatoes.
Instead of wearing a jacket and dreaming of green grass and warm weather, I wore a t-shirt, worked up a sweat and chopped clumps of grass that had invaded the garden.
I listened to birdsong and buzzing insects.
I admired my audience.
The ram, to the pen north of the garden, waited for me to throw weeds to him.
Trick the Cat lay in a corner snoozing, dreaming that the garden would produce mice and rabbits.