I drove home last evening through a beautiful winter landscape. I snatched up my camera and headed back outside with the little dog. It was too wet for the shoes I was wearing, too cold for the light spring jacket I had on. I had too many pressing things to do, really, to even take the time.
Last week, I was admiring forsythia in bloom along old streets in Connecticut. I was spotting trees in bud, daffodils and day lilies poking out of my flower beds, and the forest floor turning green.
Yesterday, perfectly timed on the first of April, winter returned – at least momentarily – to Beaver Island. Big, heavy flakes drifted down and coated everything in fresh, bright white. As breathtaking as the first snow of winter and surprising enough to remind me how naive I can be. At my age, for my cynical self to still feel amazed at what the weather is doing, is a blessing in itself.
I couldn’t let it go by without notice.
Of course, it won’t last.
Yesterday, though, I set aside my list of obligations. Dinner preparations were delayed. Phone calls had to wait. On the first of April, I went out and tramped through the snow. In my soggy shoes, with my little dog jumping and prancing along beside me, I was happy to play the fool.