It didn’t rain last night. That’s a first for this week. The night before last it rained slush. Icy-slushy drops big as nickels coating everything – heads, shoulders, the tops of shoes, the ground, making walking slippery and miserable.
But no rain last night. And this morning we woke up to a crisp half moon in a cold blue sky.
Black cows breathing great fog-clouds, as they stood huddled together in the darkened meadow.
The bright daffodils that just a few days ago promised spring, were heavily frost-coated this morning, rigid and drooping from their icy weight. Still, when the morning sun caught them, they glistened and sparkled, bursts of living gold along the green hillsides.
Despite winter’s chilly reluctance to take its leave, spring can hardly contain itself. Wild plum trees are brimming with purple blossoms. And the old wild apple trees growing here and there among roadside woods, flare like crinkly white fireworks among the dark, leafless forests.
Spring is one of my favorite seasons, as the earth nearly explodes with new life. For now, though, we keep an evening fire in the wood stove, and do our best to ride out another series of winter storms.
Rain here in the foothills means snow up the mountain. And even though the clouds are heavy, low and dark, when they clear, the High Sierra slices the sky in brilliant peaks and ridges so sharply white it hurts to gaze at them directly.
So we wait with saturated fields, swollen streams and spreading ponds. The frogs are in heaven, singing loudly every night. The ducks seem happy too. I need to learn their patience and their trust.
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