One of my favorite teachers back in the day used to love to recite the following poem each spring;
Spring has sprung
the grass is ris
I wonder where the birdies is?
We have all groaned through this epic, and his delight in the corny humor of the moment was lost on the young minds in his charge. Ironically I find delight myself in the same poor attempts at humor these days. I have been thinking about that verse this week, while waiting for spring to actually pop. After one of the snowiest winters on record, it seems to be taking longer than usual to begin. Maybe its just experience (read: aging) effecting perception.
I took a walk around the yard yesterday and captured a few images of a stark landscape about to awaken. The anticipation is as thick as molasses.