Yesterday it snowed, no different from the yesterdays before it, all the gray days blurring into one another like the snowflakes I consistently fail to capture with any lens other than the twin lenses God or nature gave me. But yesterday's snow seemed to fall in slow motion, and my husband, who knows most everything, told me that its sluggishness was owed to its light weight, and I nodded, agreed, and called the snow dainty, because I like to put my own spin on things. I would have raced for the camera, but experience has jaded me, and I was confident that the photo I'd take would look bleary and dreary, with no magic, none at all, so I didn't even try, and that's apt, isn't it, for March? Even the camera knows that magic is hard to come by in the third month.
Today I noticed that this latest snow was melting hard and fast, no match for spring, I suppose, and I heard water running through gutters and from downspouts as I walked to get the mail. When I came back into the house I found the cat on alert, neck stretched, head cocked, ears pricked, and I listened so I could hear what he was hearing: birds, not one or two but a hundred Hitchcock-worthy birds announcing their return, as raucous as middle-aged pot-bellied men after some or several drinks at a high school reunion. I wondered as I do every year how all the birds manage to show up at once. And their squawks, however dissonant, still such arresting music to me and the cat (though for entirely different reasons, of course) that we found ourselves grinning at each other, I swear we did. It's been dead quiet outside for too many weeks. I thought of the Grinch marveling that in spite of there being no gifts, Christmas managed to arrive just the same. And so it is with spring, which every year arrives just the same and just in time -- spring, which comes in on little bird feet skittering with joyful abandon over newly softening mounds of snow and slush.