Once my feet touch the floor the day begins. Just like that, I am thinking about what time we should leave the house, what items should come with us. How will I arrange the driving back and forth that has come to define these days in town. I try to think about what chores I can ask Tristan to do before he is gone for the day; try to convince a small person that he should leave the comfort of his pajamas; try to fit in that second cup of tea I know I will need to just get through this morning.
In the background of this scene is a pan of syrup on the stove "finishing". There are seedlings on the windowsill. Cat nip, feverfew, horehound have sprouted. A fresh crop of spider webs have sprouted in the far reaches. A collection of lady bugs, recent inhabitants of Evan's bug box, beetle around the interior surface. They look so busy, like they have important places to go. But really they are just wandering around in circles....
Breakfast is served, mud boots are donned, we take to the path that leads to our car. Evan grumpily adjusting to the fact that he will not be towed in the sled along the mud path up to the car.
We are still waiting for Spring. By the calendar spring began a while ago. The build up to this season is built on dashed expectations. Snow had so much romance when winter promised quiet snow bound days. At this time of year it is a cursed element. When I see water falling from the sky, I want it to be wet. I want it to wash away. I want it to cleanse the dirty crust-snow away. I want it to make mud. I want it to reveal grass and soil. Alas, I do not make the rain, I only shovel the snow.
These are my thoughts as I drive the long two miles down our dirt road to the pavement. Mud season takes on a whole new meaning when you live on a dirt road. It is not only something that resides on rubber boots, gets painted on your clean going-to-town pants; it is the last challenging remnant of winter.
I am nearly to the pavement. Along the edges of the road there are small avian bodies flitting from mud to bramble. For one moment I catch a glimpse of red breast. Spring may be a fickle temptress but she does give us signs of hope.