Nature, as though with a sudden tardy realization that her reputation for reliable efficiency has suffered of late, appears to have ordered the season to accelerate its usual processes and presentations. She clearly has her favourites. Either that, or she's quite given up on urging grumpy old man Winter to depart when he should. Turning instead to meekly sensitive Spring to make up the difference, encouraging her to become at least a little robustly self-confident.

We know this, from the swift transitions that take place on our neighbourhood woodlands. The briefly-flowering trout lilies have had their day in the sun; the emerging foliage of the forest has now made certain that the sunrays which coaxed those trumpet-yellow blooms can no longer make their way through the green screen.

And the trilliums, emblematic of the province itself in their gay spring proliferation have dimmed, their floral tributes to spring now wan. Others have, of course, taken their place. The Jack-in-the-Pulpits are turning up everywhere, where in earlier years the merest glimpse of one of those extraordinary flowers would send us into a tizzy of delight.

Now the foamflower, which look amazingly akin to our nursery-cultured Heuchera, are in full bloom. In the ravine, but also in our garden where years ago we transplanted a sole little foamflower which has now naturalized itself into a carpet of form and texture under the shade of some evergreens, along with trilliums and a later-developed clump of Jacks all of which took enthusiastically to joining our garden residents.

The ravine dogwood shrubs are putting out their early, not-yet-quite-developed floral sprays, as are the cherry trees and the apple trees, sending a veil of fragrance lingering on the breeze as we pass on the trails. The wild honeysuckle, both pink and white, are now beginning to bloom.

Spring turning over its succession of floral offerings in compensation of a long, hard winter.