All the world is still as covered with white as a frosted cake.
And when I tried to go for a walk without snowshoes on Sunday, I sank to my thighs with every step.
Mornings are still cold. Ten degrees. Or seven. Or negative thirteen.
It is far too early to declare spring, but there is a change in the air, a hint.
The sun noticeably higher in the sky.
The rays brighter, more direct.
Afternoons 43, 44, even 48 degrees.
C went out and tapped trees on Sunday.
And there's a fragrance in the woods, like the earth breathing out a sigh after a long, long rest.
No, winter's not over yet, but its icy grip is just starting to break.