Today spring knocks on my door. The sun shines, the wind, instead of throwing winter in my face, whispers, “Soon. Soon.” Getting out of the car, I shed one sweatshirt, then put my jacket back on, still warm enough. Gloves go into pockets a few minutes later.
The river still overflows its banks after rain on top of snow some days earlier, a log jam of nature’s detritus pushing against the dam. Water jets out the other side where today no heron fishes, but sunshine sparkles on the rushing water.
A squirrel sits frozen next to the path, not moving until I do, then scampering further along the mat of brown fall leaves. Although the prevailing color is still brown, a closer look reveals slender shoots of green and in some places, blatant leaves of some unknown but hardy plant. In my lawn perhaps it would be a weed, but here a welcome sign of spring. Red-winged blackbirds make their presence loudly known, although in fewer numbers than in another month or two.
Next to the damp path, mud and water discourage off-trail wandering. When I reach the open part of the trail, I think how good it will be once the trees leaf, blocking the houses on the park perimeter so I feel even less part of the city. I realize again how this time alone, away from people and city trappings, is a vital part of my inner peace, nature stopping me from even acknowledging the unceasing sounds of traffic. I spread my arms with uncontainable joy, turning in a circle near where the tracks of deer crossed the path, the softer surface exposing the paths the summer trail hides. I know winter might come again, but there is the beating promise, under the skin of the earth, of spring, of growth, of re-birth, and that, for today, is more than enough.
This, that and the other thing 