|Rideau Falls, after the annual NCC river blasting|
Even the crows are a jovial lot today, cawing their heads off and careening on stiff winds that lift them from as-yet dormant trees. Trees deep in dreams of summer. Somewhere under all their weather-worn bark and scars of the seasons, the flesh beneath is green, the sap running like blood through wooden veins.
I am not the first to write about the coming of spring. Poets and authors and far greater beings than I have wielded their pens to herald the change of seasons. But in these first few tentative days, when you know winter is, at last, coming to an end, the hibernating soul wakes from its slumber and the font of creation starts burbling again.