T his is the season of firsts, eagerly and duly recorded: first robin, first daffodil, first leaf buds, first day above sixty and then seventy degrees. In the northern part of the U.S. where I live, such firsts are savored as incontrovertible evidence, more telling than the date on the calendar, that winter has finally lost the tug of war and spring is winning the battle.
B eyond the rim of snow banks, around the bend where the trail angles into the trees, lies an expanse of white as unexplored as a blank page. No matter that countless sneakered feet and bicycle tires ply this path in every season, on this wintry day all traces of humanity are scoured away by the wind’s husky breath.
Ziggy looked around at this big wide world, and he just walked away. I let him go.Patricia Crisafulli