The thermometer read 4 degrees F when I left the house this morning.
The snow had that certain "cold crunch" that is familiar to those of us who
live in cold climates.
It's deep winter here in western Montana.
Mid to late January,
everything is in a deep freeze.
And yet . . .
If you look closely,
You'll notice the swelling
of the buds
In the huge white naket cottonwood trees.
And, in the now frozen wet places,
the red twig dogwood
branches are suddenly blood red
with the promise of spring
pulsing color up through their beings
from roots that remember.
And in ditches and along fences,
the golden willows
are nearly glowing.
Yes, it's winter.
It can be cold.
It can be harsh.
And, in the things that grow here,
there is the promise of spring.
The anticipation that,
on a still distant horizon,
spring will come.