“…And yet, down under the frozen crusts, at the roots of the trees, the secret of life was still safe, warm as the blood in one’s heart, and the spring would come again! Oh, it would come again!” – Willa Cather, O Pioneers!
There’s a different smell to the air, a sort of sharp scent that dares winter to linger much longer.
The geese who call this place home have come home. The geese who use this place as a rest stop on the way to their homes further north are camping out.
There is muck everywhere.
On the Ides of March, before the equinox but close enough, the first hesitant croaking of a frog. It was a bit premature, but I heard it.
Driving home, late. Past the pumpkin turning hour. Above, the moon, just past full, sets the snow clad hills to a great blanket of shining white. To my right, shimmering banners of emerald undulate. If it weren’t for the engine and the tires whizzing over broken pavement, if I could stand still beneath them, I imagine I could hear the celestial music they dance to. Ahead, Orion’s belt, undaunted by the luna light. Cassiopeia is on her couch. The Great Bear slumbers above the aurora. Wondrous sights to behold, a magical landscape. It’s hard to believe it’s night, there’s so much light in it.