In spring the remaining snow patterns the field like fallen clouds. Blades of grass, smothered for months, begin to unfold themselves as they dry in the sun. Wet streets are covered with gravel. Cars make a sound redolent of a fire’s crackle.
As winter unclenches her fingers in a slow release from her dark grip we begin to see again. The hours are less confining and the sound of the sky changes. There’s more to hear than the lonely wind. Leaves flutter and birds bring back their scattered tunes.
We hope some things survive the ache of the thaw and emerge waiting to greet us. Things too far to reach in the cold. Things we waited the winter for. Damp and shivering before us we bring them close, feeling their tremble slow until they're still in our arms -- perhaps for the first time.
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