It was as if Winter had woken up, and rolled over in it’s bed.
Neatly folding back the white quilted blanket it uses, and exposing parts of Spring underneath all of that snow.
Allowing the day lilies a small toe hold in the garden.
Hesitant green sprouts appearing in the frozen earth.
Snow recedes at a pace that should exhaust it, showing the brown hairy stems of rigid ferns hidden since November.
Fuzzy, muted tones of the moss that stretch toward the rare light, mingle with dead, and decayed foliage.
Fog settles on the still white fields, competing with the overflowing ditches, murky with a combination of ice, mud and hope.
Today overflowing puddles where there was a thick white covering before. Birds swoop from tree to tree, calling, sounding like a herald of the next season.
A preview, a promise, loosening the tight grip on the edge of the white blanket of snow that smothers the fields.
Melting piles, washing down roof tops, dripping off of the branches.
Spring seeps into minds, conversations…jackets undone in the sun.
Tightened when frost coats the needles of the fir trees in the early morning, chill, damp, and dark. By the afternoon, the fog goes behind the mountains, up the valley, to those who live in ice for longer.
Returning with the echoing blasts of the late train that night.
A cycle of winter to spring and back again, a disagreement of which season is to take over, and for how long and when.
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We are merely the viewers of this game between the seasons…not players, nor willing audience.
Until Spring steps up for it’s turn, and then we applaud, cheer, and stamp our feet in approval, and hope for a winner.