Every year in early April I wander the meadow to see what changes were wrought by the long, snowy winter. And every year I almost step in the hole that serves as winter den to the local population of garter snakes.

Some folks find snakes fascinating and beautiful. In others, snakes inspire an especially large measure of fear and loathing. Harvard biologist E.O. Wilson addresses this response in his essay, “The Serpent,” from Biophilia (Harvard University Press, 1984):
“What is there in snakes anyway that makes them so repellent and fascinating? The answer in retrospect is deceptively simple: their ability to remain hidden, the power in their sinuous limbless bodies, and the threat from venom injected hypodermically through sharp hollow teeth. It pays in elementary survival to be interested in snakes and to respond emotionally to their generalized image, to go beyond ordinary caution and fear. The rule built into the brain in the form of a learning bias is: become alert quickly to any object with the serpentine gestalt. Overlearn this particular response in order to keep safe.”

I have no intent to press those with established opinions about snakes. As Wilson points out, humans have “an innate propensity to learn such fear quickly and easily past the age of five.” But admittedly, it’s pleasing when kids respond with open interest to animals—especially maligned species that are actually beneficial. Last year my son and I were walking in the meadow and came upon this same den of emerging garter snakes. He’d never seen anything like it. Rather than recoiling, he stopped to watch for a long time, plying me with questions. I explained that it’s always wise to give wild animals space, but that these small snakes are generally harmless and helpful to humans—among other things, they eat worms, leeches, slugs, and a variety of insects. They congregate together underground during the winter, hibernating in groups for warmth. To the unfamiliar observer, the snakes may look like a living ball of twine, rolling and swirling as they emerge from the entrance of a hibernation den. This behavior, delightfully creepy to watch, is evidence of the other practical purpose behind garter snakes' communal hibernation: males and females have immediate access to each other in spring. After mating, each snake retreats to a separate domain around the area. Summer is not a time for sociability. This is not the last we see of them, however. Later in the season we will inevitably encounter slender hatchlings, which appear suddenly underfoot in the yard like animated blades of grass or take their turn to sun on the deck. Watch out garden pests—here they come!

Earlier this week we had a couple of warm days and a lot of melting. The sound—a steady drip and slap—overwhelmed even the enthusiastic songs of birds around the neighborhood. Water streamed from rooftops and soaked the trunks of trees. It flowed down driveways in sheets and converged on the street. Heading off to pick up my son after school, I walked between rivulets that slipped under piles of snow along the edges of the lane. Where winter ice had broken the asphalt, murky pools formed. But the pull of gravity was clear. Meltwater escaped through every crack, rejoining the flow and slipping westward toward the catch basin at the lowest point in our neighborhood watershed.

As I stood waiting for the bus, I unfocused my camera and took a picture of a spot where where tiny ripples swirled over the rough asphalt. The result is a patchwork of reflected light. I like the picture, but it leads me to something bigger. Water is in connection with the land as well as the light. What does that mean? Anything that lies on the street—leaves, dust, road salt, fertilizer, pest waste, and more—becomes part of the flow. Consequently, how we treat the land (and the air) affects the quality and quantity of water. It's a simple equation, but one we often forget.

Today is World Water Day. The United Nations cites increasing urbanization—the growth of population in cities—as a major influence on water resources globally. You'll use water many times today. When you do, stop to ponder this life-giving resource. Below are a few of the many available resources to help you learn how to protect it.

World Water Day from the UN
CDC announcement (with background and data)
Nine Mile Creek Watershed District
summary of the Clean Water Act
Renewing Earth's Waters, by Christine Petersen

At the dramatic conclusion of the season's first thunderstorm, the base of a passing cloud takes on mountainous topography. Meteorologists use the term mammatus to describe these distinctive formations. Warm, moist air in the thundercloud rises in a typical convective updraft. It strikes a layer of cooler, dry air in the atmosphere above and spreads outward to produce an anvil-shaped cloud. Ice crystals fall to the bottom of the cloud where they sublimate, changing state directly from ice to water vapor. As this cool air sinks in pockets across the base of the cloud, localized, reverse convection currents are set up—the puffballs that give mammatus clouds their texture.