The river is slow and blue, the edges encrusted with ice. Along the banks (because the river is low and shallow) the cranes wade, fish and gossip. The colors of the valley along the river are sweet pastels with the bright splash of the bush-willow’s red stems.
This season is — to me — better than REAL spring, nature’s manic rush to make up for lost time. “Good god! Summer’s coming and, damn! HURRY! Summer doesn’t last long and we have to get ready! Dump some snow! Quick! A TON of it, yeah all at once if that’s what you have to do. We gotta’ get at least 3 inches of moisture into that ground or, what do you mean ‘or what?’ There’s no ‘or what’ — not that you want to know about. Get that snow down NOW! And wind! We need wind! Yeah, I know the farmers are ploughing, but those tumbleweeds have to get GOING. Where? Wherever. No more questions! Get out there and WORK!”
At least that’s how I hope it works this strange, warm, dry winter.