Snow is predicted or a snow/rain mix or simply, rain. Spring is just three days old. I must remember to be patient and satisfied that the days are getting longer.

Yesterday, at the back of the house, where the pile of snow is melting away from the foundation, where I planted bulbs of tulips and daffodils, I saw some shoots poking through. Now, there are half a dozen more. I regret not having planted any crocus.

The ground beneath the bird feeder is a pit of despair. Frozen, pockmarked, flecked with the blood of squirrel fights (red against gray, gray against gray, red against red). Today a mourning dove sat with her back to me, then she turned and pecked at the seed.

In December, just past dusk, two deer would come and lick at the feeder. I would turn off the light over the sink. Watch as they took in seed, chewed, waited, listened, froze. A third crossed the lawn and the two turned and followed. In the morning, their prints led through the same path they always did—through the hemlocks, down the hill, over to the edge of the vernal pond, frozen over.

But everything is changing now. Melting. Falling away. The ground is opening up and not even snow can stop it.

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