Sugaring Time In New England

In the crisp cold morning of February  I hear.  The chickadee's singing. And drilling so near. Soon the men folk appear. Hanging buckets on spouts, watching the sap run out. Collecting is next. With such happy cheer. No one can wait for the smell in the air. As the sap is now syrup and April is here the maple  trees blossom in wait for next year.        By Jo-Lynn Somero