The damp in the air on a walk after work. The long light evening. The warmth layered with waves of cold coming off the melting snowbanks that the sun hasn’t yet reached.
The woods looked a little wrecked: trees limbed and space cleared between the plantation rows, but the smell was alive and piney, and what can you do but wish them well if you’re not going to chain yourself to heavy machinery? (Plant more trees, build your house, use both sides of the paper.)
I came across a water beetle as long and twice as broad as my thumb. I saw slick strips of birch bark. I walked on red-brown dirt that ought to be muddier this time of year, under a sky sinking with deep blue clouds– spring-storm clouds, not gray-blue snow clouds.
And now the sky flashes purple and white. Rain lashes the windows. No matter how many cold days there are, we keep moving forward, turning the wheel, churning the lake with wind, coming up green again, improvising, playing it by memory, by heart, just like every time– everyone– before.