It was written in the receding line of snow at our neighborhood sledding hill – the last day of sledding for a while. Maybe for the season. With a string of 50 degree days ahead, the world is utterly transformed.
66/365: sledding hill
Today’s post title is also the title of a song by The Head & the Heart. We fell in love with this band after seeing them play live at Festival Palomino last fall.
Monday night it snowed another 6 inches. Tuesday morning, the sun showed up in full force. Snow was melting so fast – like the entire spring thaw condensed into time lapse. Huge chunks of snow pelted the rooftop all morning in a sky-is-falling symphony.
In twelve short hours, all six inches of snow had been transformed into rushing, dripping, exuberant, flowing WATER and the sun set with the satisfaction of a job well done.
Reflections can be so much more than mirror images. The pictures you see on the surface of the water place the sky at your feet and lend a glossy luminescence to even the drabbest of subjects. Then all it takes is the slightest disturbance – a drop of water, a hint of breeze – to set off waves of shimmering distortion, confusing reality into brilliance.
Winter is worn out. I walked to the creek yesterday and saw signs everywhere of the season’s last gasp. The sledding hill was empty, its snowpack well-trodden and soggy from the morning rain, cracked sleds abandoned near the bottom. The frozen creek was like a junkyard full of jagged ice chunks and broken branches, naked ice unprotected by its usual blanket of snow now pockmarked and scarred.
We romanticize signs of spring – grass turning green, birds singing, the smell of a warming breeze – but this scene was more like the field after a battle. It looked as if winter finally gave up the ghost but, then, I didn’t actually see it wave the white flag.