Just two days ago it was frozen white snow. Today it’s richest of mud.
The kind mixed with manure. Deep hoof, boot and paw prints filled with the soup of the season.
It splashes high above my boot, just below the back of my knee when I bring out the hay. I leave Fate and Zinnia in the back yard, where they rub themselves in what remains of the snow, cleaning off the muck before coming into the house.
But the smell lingers.
Mud season comes in through the back door like the rest of us.
And why not.
In the fall it’s the leaves scattered on the kitchen floor, in the summer the mosquitos, spiders and flies, in the winter the cold and in the spring it’s mud.
