The forest year has neither beginning nor end. It has, however, landmarks along its coiling journey. By December, the worms are slow in the soil. Pillbugs and woolly bears become still as the puddles freeze. Painted ladies and mourning cloak butterflies are tucked under sheaves of tree bark. At our home in the Chicago region, snow comes and goes. One weekend, we have enough to cross-country ski. By the next it has melted away. Some years, we have yet to plant the garlic.
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