The thaw has begun.
The removal of a week of ice and snow as the temperatures rise. I love every season in this little holler
where I live. I love the fact that when
I call it a “holler” and when I use the word “y’all” those closest to me smile
because they know while it isn’t natural for me, it still comes naturally. I was raised to use proper English, and yet
my roots are in these Ozark Mountains where both of these phrases are, in actuality,
quite proper.
I love that just two minutes spent on my front porch gives
me more energy than any of those overly inflated promises on 2 ounce to 20
ounce bottles of marketing genius. The
sound of the thaw. A delectabley blended
recipe. Drippings from branches, the
running of the stream, the flutter of wings from a variety of native birds;
cardinals, jays, tufted titmouse, juncos, and doves, just to name a few. The intermittent tapping of a downy
woodpecker. The gentle ringing of the
wind chime, a marker of the breeze of a changing season. The sound of the release from a frozen creation
sculpture. Incomparable.