S
pring is on its way, and the roads are not great. The earth is unsettled, and bonds are loosening. The seeds, long imprisoned in the soil, do not yet know that their captors have abandoned their posts, and the doors are locked no more. The forest snorts in its sleep, and the asphalt buckles and slides like poorly-secured sheets. We became dependent on the security of the ice and snow, however much we might have cursed it under our breath. Now, as it retreats into seasonal oblivion, our feet stick in the mud, and we half-grin in bewilderment. What's going on? Is this sun here to stay? Is my car about to be buried to the axel? We could fall through the surface of the planet at any moment, swallowed up and forgotten. There is still no green, only the wretched remains of last year's grass, now lying naked and gasping in the open air. Birds trill sardonically, pleased with themselves to be the first to reclaim Winter's barren territory. He seemed so mighty, not long ago -- but now his throne is kept by mud-spattered dogs, and the wind drags the overcast sky away by her hair. We take our jackets off for a moment, then decide to put them back on. But soon. Soon.