The heads of new grass have yet not peeked. No blooms. No bright colors. All is muted. Sound and stain.
The buds are still small and almost shrink wrapped in tiny nuggets on coarse and naked twigs. The soil is moist and sink-y. Your feet collapse in the mush. Some patches of snow still persist. Some snowy peaks still endure.
The trees are silent and bare. The stream is flowing with fresh, noisy water from melting snow.
And snow … is melting. We knew winter had no force anymore, judging by the immediate meltdowns right after huge dumps, but it was good to see whole mountain faces bare of snow.
The land is quiet. Nothing but wood, rock and brown, withered brush … Everything is still asleep … No noise but our footsteps on dirt roads.
Some folks are out – still shy at picnicking, some are fishing, lonely in newly swollen streams, and some are just joyriding, getting lost on lonely back roads. The big, boisterous voices of summer are silent.
Not many creatures. Other than birds. But signs of them everywhere – manure, and holes dug in the ground, and mini-trails, and hoof prints. Cacti chewed up and spit out… Skulls … feathers stuck on rocks …
The tired winter is dying … No promise yet of anything anew. But small patches of fresh blue skies are whispering possibility …