Whenever I envisage March I see a picture of glorious golden daffodils shivering uncomfortably in a cold wind. She can never decide whether her allegiance lies with the dark crone of winter or the fresh virgin of spring. And that, unfortunately, makes her untrustworthy.
There’s been a bat flying at dusk the past few nights, too, but they have to come out of hibernation as early as they reasonably can to put weight on after the rigours of the winter sleep. But warblers have a choice. You’d think they’d be more sensible, wouldn’t you?