Spring is slowly seeping back into the Wisconsin landscape. One can never be too sure about Spring here, what with the spiteful snowstorms that suddenly strike in the middle of March just to laugh at those hopeful optimists who had the audacity to even think the word spring, but I think she’s almost here. I heard the birds trilling in the trees yesterday. They can almost make me forget that the branches they lithely hop to and from are still bare and dull brown, stark against the eggshell blue sky.
The driveway is no longer iced over, and grainy brown mud, streaked with small streams of melting snow, has taken its place. I can forgive the damage this mud did to my best ballet flats for the simple fact that it means my world is no longer conquered by that awful thing which people long, long ago named Winter.
The very air has changed, and I think I’ve managed to catch Sping in the act of arriving. She is barely here, but I’ve found her in the little things. The wind that ever graces our Ridge does not cut anymore. Rather it has become a caress, filled with promise, even as it swoops softly over snow covered fields. The sun has shed some of its Winter timidity and pokes into my room in shafts of amber as the sun sets behind the hills, and I warm my toes in its shy warmth.
So, I walk a little slower these days and huddle less tightly in my jacket. I know that Spring isn’t here yet, but soon it will be. And that makes me smile as I shuffle through the leftover snowplow-sand over street and sidewalk alike.