We had a lot of rain over the weekend, and as I dodged the drops (not always successfully), I thought about the moistness that’s the
beginning, the true origin, of spring — and of all life.

Noticing the swollen buds on the forsythia, a pinch of yellow
here and there. The greening of stems, the smallest actors.

The birds get it before we do. They know the days are
getting longer, the light stronger. They know the river of spring is rising.

I want to enter this river, knowing it will be muddy and
cold. I want to be carried along into true spring. Beyond the pale yellow of
forsythia into the pinks and whites and purples of azalea, dogwood and lilac.
Right now we are on the banks, just dipping our toe into the waters. But soon
we will be riding high.