Weeks

The world is anxious in anticipation of spring. I can feel the skies trying to break through. There comes a cautious string of noise from the same bird that has been trying to wake up the leaves all month long.

Deer footprints cross my front lawn, one set of delicate holes punctured through the heavy, wet snow, little parallel lines drawn diagonally across the slope. They shoot towards the alleyway. I wondered where she thought she was going.

I have to remember that 45 is not the same as 65, but I'm guilty of the same anticipation. I put on a t-shirt instead of a wool base layer for the first time in months, and nearly wipe out on the ice that slicks down my driveway, the layer of water on top disguised by shadow. I laughed when I stepped outside, accustomed to feeling as if the weather is actively antagonizing my commute, and instead encountering the gentle whisper of almost-spring.

19 February 2014 10:19