Waiting for Spring

Waiting for Spring

Crusty smears of dirty snow linger in the creases and crevices of the frozen fields.
Dead brown weeds lie flattened in the ditches and gullies where snow banked deep.
The day is bright, but the sun rays from the watery blue sky only lukewarm my leg.
The other leg feels the icy north wind.
It’s beyond crisp, the other side of chilly;
It’s knifing cold against both thigh and face.
Lucie races ahead to sniff every exotic aroma,
even the iron-hard ground holds secret scents for her sensitive nose.
My slower human legs struggle to catch up.
The Canadas complain loudly as we walk by.
We disturb them, but not enough to make them fly from the small patch of open water they’ve found in the marsh.
Complaints recede to low mutterings as they discuss which farmer’s field to glean for supper.
Under the frozen tracks and ruts, new life counts the hours, numbers the days, measures the degrees of warmth.
The naked trees silhouette against the wan afternoon light.
Tips of tiny branches swell slightly.
Not yet, but soon…
Waiting for spring.

22 February 2009