Thaw misleadin' freeze

A winters-worth of oil flows down the alley, and I splash through rainbow puddles on my way to the beach. It is March 1st, and the snow is shining. The promise of spring has given me such energy that I ran to the top of the watershed and back, just high enough to see the south edge of Crystal Lake, the ice below looking thin and blue. I ran back down, against the wind, while the beech trees creaked and groaned in the wind and large branches that had fallen in gusts past threaten a splintered fate should I loiter too long, taking in the view of the backside of the Elberta dunes.

The elberta dune is covered in hardwood forest, naked for the winter. The hill is like the balding head of a young man or old woman, sparse hair can’t quite hide the scalp, though it strives to. So do the thin trees reveal the summer-hidden contours of the hill.

The sky glows pink and orange and purple all at once and the cedars lining the alley are finally giving off the green smells of spring.

One week later, IPR warns me of a winter storm before I am even awake, and in less than an hour I am back down to my 35 mph commute along the icy coastal highway, wipers squeaking against the wet snow. Until the next thaw, smells return to their frozen cloister in the cedar boughs.