At the edge of the lake, I sit and dine in solitude. My company is the snow-melt. A constant, tinkling trickle like rain that suggests the snow is leaving as softly as it came.
And here comes the wind. All day it has been coming and going, distracting me, rattling the aspen and bending the conifers; those elastic giants that keep their foliage, but remain defenseless. This northern wind, she is intense and demanding. And she has got my attention.
This is so different from the coastal wind that I know like kin. Those firm, dark winds press down upon me and blow right through me. The wind from the sea is heavy and forceful, hard to face and harder to breathe. But not this wind, this dry urgent air. This wind lifts as it blows. She is alive and buoyant. She pushes up against me and all around me. She quickens my pulse, alights my eyes, makes my skin hum like a live wire. There is something in this wind, a story, a message. She draws some energy across the land from the east, and I feel like something is about to happen.
This must be spring.
