Sunday, April 08, 2007


Spring comes different in Maine. For months there is a progression of increasing mud with the ongoing threat of new snow. There are plow piles that linger in the afternoon shade, in the land of the morning sun, that linger on into June. There is the patch of flattened, soggy, brown grass that is first to show through the snow in March and gallops the heart with joy at the sight of ground last seen in November. There is the flagrantly bright flame of green sprouted boldly naked along the tarry black river's edge, the cars parked two tires in the roadside mud, owners gone off in thigh high boots hunting still curled fiddleheads. There is the May morning you step outside and your entire body screams with exhuberance your lungs and fingertips can't contain for overnight the buds have popped on every tree and there is color in your scope once more.