This, Is Spring

It was how it always is with spring. Grey, low-slung clouds hugged the hills, crept into the valleys, and obscured the mountains, snowing all over everything like it was late December. By looking, one would have thought so, too (snow storms can be quite convincing).

Except.

One step beyond the front door, and the birdsong blew the storm's cover. This wasn't the simple winter twitter between chickadees, or the singular call of a raven. This was a cacophony of birdsong from those who'd just winged in from warmer climes, whose melodies together made up the unmistakable auditory bouquet of spring, right there in the middle of a snow storm. Like the emerging crocuses and daffodils, they knew their time, no matter what might be falling.

By afternoon, the storm couldn't hang on any longer, exhausted as it was by the steady pressure of a warmer sun. Snowflakes became water, looking for a place to go. Everywhere dripping, dripping. Clear water somehow rendering the landscape in a deeper tone.

And LOOK! Green! The first blades, the first shoots. The first of the season, poking out in the warmest places, leading the way. And moss on the wet tree trunks! Green of another kind. Vibrant, brilliant moss, wooly against the rough bark. Below this, the creek, no longer bound by ice, pushing its way along in a happy chatter-clatter, paying no mind to its muddy colored self.

This, is spring. It has come for us.

Are you ready?