sprung ovenbird Here, on the western edge of the country, spring lasts for six months. It starts in January when the trees succumb to their optimism and start to bud, everything dripping with the weight of relentless fog. I can see myself reflected in a perfect globe of water clinging to a furled leaf that is fairytale green. It’s been twenty years without experiencing a real winter. I miss it, sometimes. I miss the way the cold would coax the earth into stasis. I miss the way the ice would suddenly relent and everything would shout its survival all at once. Here there are snowdrops in January, crocuses in February, daffodils in March, cherry blossoms in April, more of a mosey than a spring, everything taking its dear sweet time and lingering in a lazy, unconcerned way. I can’t relate to this sprawling season. My inclination is always to run riot. I love as if I was never promised another spring. 260121 what's it to you? who go blather from