19 degrees, frost, the mist of breath and steam from manure.
But even in my winter coat, wool hat and gloves, the sun blossoming between the tall pines again, reminds me that it’s spring.
As well as the trill of Red Winged Blackbirds, which punctuates the songs of the all the other birds, whose name I don’t know, and I didn’t hear a just a few weeks ago.
