March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.

Nature seems to look after her own only up to a certain point; beyond that they are supposed to fend for themselves.

Listen to it, and you are hearing the mighty currents of the air rushing down the latitudes of the earth, currents from the Mackenzie and the Athabasca and the Saskatchewan, and from the prairies and the white Tundra. It is a homeless wind, forever on the move.

As I stood and watched the mists slowly rising this morning I wondered what view was more beautiful than this.

To see a hillside white with dogwood bloom is to know a particular ecstasy of beauty, but to walk the gray Winter woods and find the buds which will resurrect that beauty in another May is to partake of continuity.

Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.

There is a leisure about walking, no matter what pace you set, that lets down the tension.