On a warm afternoon this week, I set out on a walk seeking
signs of spring. Instead of following a familiar route, I wandered through some
neighborhoods where I found croci (Is that the plural of crocus?) struggling up
from a bed of dead leaves.
Soon I left the residential area and found my way down a
small dirt path to a big open field with a lake in the distance. The territory
looked familiar and I knew that it would be easy to find my way home from here.
I’m so good at getting lost that this was a comforting thought.
The field was brown and raggedy, with only the slightest
hint of green, about what you’d expect to find in Northern Colorado in March.
Soon I came upon an old post planted firmly in the ground
and adorned with a collection of what could only be called junk. The top of the post was crowned with a Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey bottle. Below it a crushed pop can had
been nailed to the post alongside a rusted-out oversize tin can hanging in the breeze. A piece of
fabric with a design on it, looking as if it might have been part
of a hat, was attached a little lower down on the post. The whole array was
encircled by a long piece of white tape marked with horizontal bars every foot
or so and intermingled with strong
wire holding the whole collection together.
It was silly and artsy and unexpected, and far from a sign
of spring. I liked it. It stood there welcoming all seasons.
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