It is not yet spring, but I see it today in the deep blue sky. Spring announces her approach on the wind blowing through my open windows, carrying the sun that warms my face and a bright patch on the floor beside me. She calls to me through the finches who are perched in the spruce tree, darting to the feeder and their thawing bird bath until my dog gallops through, scattering them to branches above her reach. Chattering chirps and croaks and whistles remind me that warmer days will follow.
My dog is warming herself outside, stretched on the black doormat, ears perking distant sounds, nose twitching in the direction of the breeze. Each time she chases the birds, January’s melting snow flicks up to splatter her legs and belly. I will have to bribe her with treats to towel her off, but for now, she is dirty and warm and content.
I feel both tired and impatient, wanting to stretch and grow and explore but fearing it can’t possibly be done. I wonder if the daffodils out front feel this way, being nudged awake by this warm February day. All in good time.
For now, I will rest by the window and dream.