When March comes in like a lion, "they" say, it goes out like a lamb. I'm glad, either way, that it does go.

I did, however, try to enjoy the last, oh-please-God, snows of the season. One thing spring has never been accused of is coming too soon.

We’re ready. We’re poring over our seed catalogs.

But I do love snowshoeing after a fresh, light snow. The otherworldly hush of the newly blanketed forest, unmarked by man – a new world, all mine. But this year, we only had a couple of snowshoe snows followed immediately by enough rain or drizzle to spoil it.

Mostly, this winter, I've enjoyed my snow from the inside looking out. And on full moon/Stalking Moon nights, it is a wondrous sight.

Looking out into the woods, I take in the dancing moonshine, bounce-lit off the snow, casting moon-shadows from the trees, tripping long-ago memories of the Maine forest and fields on long-ago nights, nights when Grampa Roy would take my brother and me out into the magic. I could all but see an Indian standing silently in the tree line, waiting for a deer he had tracked in the light of the moon.

I became the Indian and I found tracks and "stalked." This first winter out here, out of the city lights, the woods have pulled at me on such nights. I put out the house lights and stand, entranced, looking into my woods. I want to go out, but, well, you know how cold it's been this winter. I'm an old lady, not a young kid who doesn't stop to weigh such things as frostbite and chilblain – or worrying about taking a tumble in the woods — or rather, getting up from a tumble.

But the last full moon got to me. Knowing it might be my last chance this winter, I bundled up like a bear and went out into the silver-blue forest.

My little patch of woods is crisscrossed with tracks. What a lively place it must be at night. And from the looks of it, the resident four-foots have a fun time doing whatever it is they do out there.

Squirrel tracks run back, forth, around and up and down trees. Teeny little mouse feet leave their imprints and one spot tells the tale of a close call. Mouse tracks scurry back and forth and there's several uniform wing scratches on either side of the track path, and a flurry of indentation/confrontation where a night hunter, an owl, made a swooping grab for the tiny gray morsel. No blood specks though, so I prefer to think the little one squeaked away.

There are lots of rabbit in my woods — or one very busy one leaving tracks everywhere. Tracks of a large buck that evidently owns this "neck of the woods" are all through. He takes a different tack each time, as evidenced by the different ages of the sets of tracks.

The woods were quiet, hushed. No stray breeze, no leaves to rustle. I stood, mesmerized between two trees, melting into it all. Suddenly I became aware of a noise breaking the muffled silence. It sounded like a small freight train barreling through the woods directly toward me. My mind went into slow-motion-auto-pilot. No time to do anything but stand still, don't move, don't breathe. "You're in between two trees," says my mind, "stay put."

And then it is upon me, a magnificent buck — the ruler of these woods I think of as mine. He passed by me so close I could've reached out and stroked his side as he went on by, never seeing me or sensing me there.

I stood motionless long after he had gone from sight and sound. His presence was still there. This was really his woods — his and all the other track makers'. They simply allow me to share.

Marion Tucker-Honeycutt, an award-winning columnist, a Maine native and graduate of Belfast, now lives in Morrill. Her columns appear in this paper every other week.