“It was so warm yesterday she said. Sixty degrees. I laid down by the river and fell asleep.”

The snow seemed to arrive late this year in Vermont. It’s exit seems particularly abrupt but non the less timely. Snowmelt appearing in the mountains. I pass our local ski resort the morning before yesterday as I make my way to the local farmer’s market. The one of two errands I seem to do with any regularity these Covid-19 cautious days. The mountain is now peppered with large brown patches of Earth. Just last weekend there were lines of skiers waiting at the chair lift. Thoughts of spring…

Mud season has unceremoniously arrived. The Earth warms as the snow melts and the dirt roads respond. Streams purposefully moving. The forcefulness of the rapidly flowing water can be heard in our little house on the hill. Bird songs have multiplied over the past few days. Evidence of daffodils in the front gardens. Warmth making a brief yet deceptive appearance this week. As the sun drops behind the hills somewhere around 4:30 p.m. each day the March coolness returns, and thoughts of May are temporarily stored away. Signs of spring…

Curbside grocery pick-up has been something I have come to rely on over the past many months. The procedure has become second nature. Normal but not. Masked but with a familiar face I embark on a socially distant chat with a young market employee as she places my order in the back of the car. I am happy to have conversation. We excitedly talk about the recent run of warm temperatures and bright blue skies. One can always find easy conversation around weather in New England. We acknowledged our soaring spirits being influenced by the rising mercury.

“It was so warm yesterday she said. Sixty degrees. I laid down by the river and fell asleep.”

I soaked in the beauty of her words and what they represented. “That is why we live here” was my only response…

At the end of winter, there is a season in which we are daily expecting spring, and finally a day when it arrives. Henry David Thoreau