Good news, hawk fans! This morning, I was sitting on my couch staring at the floodplain (our home sits on the hill overlooking that floodplain) when I saw a Red-Shouldered Hawk fly to last year’s nest. The bird fussed around in the nest for about 60 seconds, arranging and rearranging sticks. I’m hoping this means that last year’s nest has been chosen for this year’s nesting season. As you may recall, I described last year’s nest in yesterday’s post. I’ll add additional hawk updates as events unfold.

But I wasn’t staring out the window in hopes of seeing the hawk specifically. I confess I spend most early mornings staring out that window as I watch wildlife, and admire how winter morning light kisses treetops, then gradually descends trunks to ground level. Sycamores are especially breathtaking as their white trunks glow in the sun’s spotlight.

However, today there is no sunlight. This overcast, chilly winter day is quite a shock to the system after our first weekend of above-normal temperatures since — well, it was so long ago that I can’t remember. But this sudden shift caused me to muse about just how dramatically weather can transform a familiar landscape — especially a winter landscape, which tends to be rather austere (bare branches, brown grass) even on sunny days.

So I went through my files and found two photos of our floodplain showing similar views. Wonder Spouse took the first one in early September of 2008. Although I don’t remember the cause of the flood, that time of year it was probably the result of a passing hurricane or tropical depression.  The second photo was taken last February after a moderate snowfall. The power of water, be it liquid or frozen, is undeniable in both photos.

Floodplain in September 2008

Floodplain, February 2010

A wise piedmont gardener plans on these inevitable transformations by choosing new plant additions with them in mind. For example, we’ve added a number of understory plants to the floodplain, but few of them are evergreens. That’s because I love the way this vista opens up in winter, especially after a snowfall. What you see in that picture isn’t all our property, but it looks as if it could be because of the way the eye travels.

Those new plants we’ve added are also adapted to withstanding floods, which you can see is a necessary requirement in that locale. Native deciduous hollies, Virginia sweetspires, and spicebushes all happily tolerate occasional swims.

Winter is a great time to think about how your piedmont landscape transforms with the seasons. Bare spots and overgrown areas are easier to identify. It’s also helpful to take pictures of the same view during all four seasons — and after particularly striking weather transformations.

Gardening is an endurance sport. It takes years to transform a landscape. And if you plant as many trees as I have planted, it takes more than one lifetime. But that’s okay. In my mind’s eye, I can see those saplings presiding over the landscape as tall mature specimens. And I trust that whoever lives here after me will appreciate the continuing transformation of this patch of piedmont.

You may need to be a gardener to fully appreciate winter rain. To commuters and children waiting for school buses, it is an inconvenience. Cold drops dampen roads and clothes. Bad hair days abound.

But I am practically giddy with anticipation of the most significant rain event promised for my region in months. Yes, months. My area is in moderate drought — right now, in the middle of January. Probably only gardeners appreciate the seriousness of this.

My creek is low, barely flowing. The mud puddles that usually dot my floodplain in winter are absent. Where will the salamanders breed? They need wet spots devoid of fish to deposit and fertilize their eggs.

Where will the water for my vegetable garden come from if our shallow well doesn’t refill before the growing season begins? As it is, most years, the well goes dry in early August. The tomatoes and squash — both water-hungry veggies — suffer and decline in my late summer garden when I can no longer water.

Rain-swollen creeks flush out old debris, and if our creek overflows and deposits some of that debris on our floodplain, I’m okay with that. Such events bring the Great Blue Herons closer, as they patrol the flooded area seeking stranded fish.

Today (and tomorrow, if the weather forecasts are accurate), I will sit snug in a chair and listen happily to the music of rain on my roof. I will step outside and inhale the long-absent moisture in the air and listen to busy bird calls. They appreciate the benefits of winter rain too, I think.

And if I am fortunate enough to hear rain dancing on my roof as I sleep tonight, my dreams will be sweetened by visions of soft spring green leaves, fragrant flowers, and abundant fruits.

Rain equals life. May we all get what we need to flourish.

The eastern edge of our yard is adjacent to a perennial creek. The other side of that creek is occupied by a strip of alluvial forest. Mature sycamores, river birches, water oaks, maples, sweet gums, and tulip poplars tower beside us — sentinels of our eastern border.

Until recently, that forest climbed the ridge behind it, creating a wide swath of ideal habitat for wildlife. But my neighbor chose to have that ridge clear-cut two years ago. It was painful to hear and see the destruction of this healthy forest. I count myself fortunate that the giant machines wielding terrifying saws couldn’t cut the trees beside the creek. The ground was too soft and dissected by tributary streams.

Now that time has healed the raw destruction, I have managed to find an up-side to this change in the neighboring forest. The bare ridge allows light to penetrate the remaining forest much more easily. Before the clear-cut, sunrises were almost non-events. Morning color was usually gone by the time the light had topped the trees.

But now — now I am treated every non-cloudy morning to breathtaking winter sunrises. Bare branches and tall trunks of remaining border sentinels stand in dark silhouette against a varying canvas of color. Some mornings paint the sky with Easter egg pastels — pale lavenders and soft peaches. Some mornings set my eastern border on fire with vivid scarlets, neon magentas, and rich golds.

What does this have to do with piedmont gardening? Everything, my friends. The piedmont environment of our homes and gardens was most likely forest before we all showed up. In my opinion, that forest must not be forgotten in the rush to build more strip malls and suburbs.  Our native wildlife needs that forest. And we need some version of that forest to be connected to the heart of what this region has been and should remain.

As I admire a succession of winter sunrises, I am daily reminded of the importance, power, and beauty of piedmont forest. The image in the header at the top of this blog is a photograph of one of those sunrises. Wonder Spouse (and ace photographer) was kind enough to capture our eastern border framed in light. He tells me he plans to create headers for each season. I know they will all be as beautiful as this one.

I thought you might like to see the photo from which he extracted the header. Enjoy this winter sunrise. And meditate with me on ways to incorporate the seasonal beauty and power of piedmont forest into our home landscapes.

Damn, it’s cold outside today. No sun. Strong wind. And a temperature that never made it past 32.5 degrees F, according to our outdoor thermometer. My technology-loving spouse long ago set up several thermometers that automagically send their data to a receiver inside the house. There’s one on the cold hill — the place where snow melts last every time. Another is tucked in a warmer spot near the back deck. The third outdoor thermometer resides inside the greenhouse, so that we can monitor the welfare of the tender cuttings, seedlings, and house plants that huddle inside. Spouse also set up an automatic rain gauge that measures and dumps precipitation as it falls, sending updates to a receiver on the mantle of our fireplace. I confess I enjoy the automagical nature of these devices.

Of course, on days like today when the numbers never climb, the devices only serve to reinforce the cold that creeps inside my knees, despite the long underwear covering them. Oh how I long for spring. The longing was made worse by recent mail deliveries. Today I received my tomato seed order. And yesterday, all the other vegetable, herb, and flower seeds I ordered arrived in a fat cardboard box that just fit inside our mailbox.

Now my fingers itch with the desire to fill flats with potting soil, sow tiny seeds that tax my aging eyes, and tuck them into the germination chamber in the greenhouse, with the warmth of the germination cable beneath it to gently coax seeds from slumber to seedling.

But it’s too soon for that ritual. Tomatoes planted now would be three or four feet tall before it would be time to transplant them into the garden. The greenhouse is only a little 8′ x 12′ structure that Wonder Spouse built from a kit some 16 years ago. Not enough room for premature planting, not with the threat of more ice and snow promised for next week.

So I must content myself with dreaming of future flowers, fresh herbs, tangy tomatoes, and warm summer sunshine. Meanwhile, here are some sunflowers from an earlier season to brighten your spirits — and mine.