Last evening, just as dusk was turning into night, Irving called me outside, where he was standing on the deck, listening to a chorus high above of Canada geese in their typical Vee formation, flying across a far-off crescent moon. In a silent night sky their orchestration of calls carry with surprising clarity. Their precision formation and triumphant announcement of reverse migration invariably brings back memories of other years and other places when their calls arrested our attention.

This was a busy, long line of geese, and alongside the neat parade were other geese flying independently but with the orderly group, making their own singular journey, together yet apart. It's the kind of spectacle hungry eyes and ears want to dally, so a fuller enjoyment of their presence can be held in static time. But the geese and physics have different agendas than ours; suddenly they were there ... just as suddenly all was quiet and they were no longer to be seen.

Later on in t he evening when dark night had long descended, there was little Pepe le Peu with his wonderful tail and clear Y-shaped white streak on the black background of his beautiful haircoat. He was taking his time, clearing up the last remnants of the peanuts Irving had put out while it was still light. We watched the graceful little creature, then left him to his devices.

When next we looked through the door he was gone and in his place was Junior Rascoon, the smallest of the handful of raccoons that tend to come around from five in the late afternoon onward. This is the last of the peanuts. And the cookies that Irving puts out for the wildlife during the winter and early spring. They're on their own now to forage, because there should be plentiful natural food for them, far healthier than what we put out.

We've had yet another splendid weather day, with the high temperature for the afternoon reaching 18C, a light breeze and beaming sun floating on the blue cover of the world. All the trails have now nicely dried up so we're no longer striding through layers of muck. These days, when we return home after a two-hour trek through the forest trails, Jackie's and Jillie's little paws no longer need generous applications of soapy wet sponge.

Things are more relaxed and spontaneous now. None of us has to struggle to get into layers of clothing to keep warm. The sun has obligingly taken over from the wind and freezing sleet. We're always happy to be out and about in the woods, but now there's constant daily discoveries to add to the pleasure. The wild raspberry canes and thimbleberry shrubs are taking on green weight as they began to renew their foliage, preparing to flower and eventually produce fruit in late summer.

More trout lilies are beginning to open and bloom, but they're never particularly generous with their flowers. It's difficult to photograph them with their nodding downturned heads. There are spread-out colonies on the forest floor, but most people just tend to pass by without ever glancing at the forest floor interior, just beyond the forest trails. It takes a probing eye to make out the delicate little yellow flowers among the green-mottled foliage.

And nor do people tend to notice the trilliums, although it's the Provincial flower. But they're there, waiting to be discovered. And it's just as well they don't mind being overlooked. Mentioning their bright insouciant presence in bloom takes people by surprise, oblivious to their presence before their very eyes. They give us so much pleasure, each one encountered seeming like a personal special gift.