from the Ninth Wave Arts caretakers

The vernal equinox is just ahead, and as the earth tilts ever so slightly toward the sun, having just passed through the blood moon lunar eclipse, there’s a pause in the air—a kind of space between two worlds.

We are caught in that liminal space, the moment when winter still has some hold, but the promise of spring lingers just beyond the horizon.

I’ve been watching the tracks of the coyote in the snow and mud, two worlds blending together. There are places where the prints are sharp and crisp, deep in the snow, and places where they blur, softened by slush, as though the coyote is moving through both seasons at once. Its tracks tell a story of transition, of a creature not quite leaving winter behind but also not fully embracing what is coming.

The coyote knows how to live in this in-between space, its body moving effortlessly from snow to mud, from cold to warmth, from night to day.

The deer, too, are beginning to leave, their numbers diminishing each day. They’ve wintered here in the woods and field, but now they are making their way onward, the ground beneath them softening with each step. Their departure feels like the closing of a chapter—the last remnants of winter slipping away without fanfare. In their place, the first chipmunks are emerging, small bursts of energy against the backdrop of melting snow. They are the first to show themselves after the long silence of winter, darting from place to place—hesitant, but hungry.

The trees are still bare, their branches tangled and lifeless, but there is a feeling that something is shifting.

The land is waking in fits and starts, like a body shaking off the remnants of a long, deep sleep.

There have been recent days when the building itself shudders, as the roof sheds the weight of winter snow.

The birds are the loudest sign of the change. Cardinals flash their red through the branches, blue jays call out in sharp tones, chickadees, finches, and others meet the shifting season with sound and movement.

The red-winged blackbirds are the most insistent, their calls filling the air with a sense of arrival, staking their claim on the land. And still, it’s not just the usual ones—the woods feel full of birds now, more than can be named, more than can be seen, their voices weaving through every corner as a reminder that something is changing.

And then, there’s the skunk. Not seen, not heard, but present in the air—an unmistakable scent drifting on the wind, a reminder that the world has been waking slowly while attention has been held elsewhere. The skunk is invisible, but undeniably here, like a quiet return from winter’s depths. There is something strangely comforting in that presence, as though it marks a threshold. It lingers just long enough to remind that everything is shifting, even when it isn’t yet visible.

The land is full of contradictions. Mud, thick and clinging, holds onto each step—a sign of thaw, but also of memory, of snow not long gone and growth not yet arrived.

The ground is not quite solid, not quite soft—a reflection of this moment between seasons. The coyote’s tracks blur in places, as if even it is uncertain where to place the next step, whether to remain in the snow or move fully into the mud. This is the nature of the in-between, where nothing is fully one thing or another.

Snow still clings to the edges of the world, while the mud takes over the middle. The birds fill the air with their calls, but it is not quite celebration yet—more a signal, a gathering, a promise.

At this time, there is a waiting. Not rushing the season, not asking spring to arrive before it is ready, allowing the land the time it needs to shed winter fully—for the mud to dry, for the snow to release its hold.

Things already move too fast; waiting begins to feel like a kind of luxury.

Spring is coming, but for now, the land is held in this delicate balance between two seasons—and there is a place here, too, to remain within that balance, watching the coyote’s tracks as they lead forward, reminding that even here, in the liminal space, there is movement. There is direction. There is purpose.