Winter fights to hang on well into almost April. In the country it isn’t necessarily robins pecking at a cache of frozen apples or a sudden blast of sunshine that marks spring’s approach. It’s the sound of ice crunching underfoot.
The transition of seasons is marked by a layering effect of rain falling upon snow followed by snow upon ice. I step carefully as I walk into the woods behind our house, picking my way over precarious spreads of dirty white, my boot soles leaving impressions in the sparkling surface.
This year winter is definitely not going out like a lamb. Temperatures are projected to plummet as low as two degrees tonight; one last heave-ho of bone-chilling, muscular force. Tomorrow morning my footsteps will be frozen fossils alongside days-old deer tracks, a record of one brief and beautiful moment I spent on this earth. Other seasons have their gifts, but winter is the only one that can literally suspend time.