Lake snowflakes tumble down, diagonally past the window. The daffodils endure it as do the just-opening hyacinth and the boat-like pedals of the flowering magnolias. If there’s such a thing as a false spring in the January thaws, then this is a false winter in the early days of spring.
Yesterday, about 160 miles south, I walked through budding trees, having rolled up my sleeves because of the heat and sun. Tomorrow I may be pulling dead things out of the garden and putting in potato and onion starts instead. It all turns on a dime in March and April, and right at the cusp of these months, even more so.
Meanwhile, there’s something a little sad about seeing what will probably be the last winding snow drop straight down or rush sidewalks behind the large cottonwood, holding small buds on its branch tips while the birds of spring look at each other in confusion but also in song.