> jumping into life.

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I came to this place in February, the midst of winter's dark heart. In April I still knew the land. It is nearly June now and the new growth is shocking. Ferns raised their tight fists against the winter, then released them into loving hands for spring. The trees all opened overnight. The fields were turned and turned again. In the garden, the lettuces filled their neat rows and spilled over into the spaces between. Birds everywhere. The ants came alive, the beetles stuck end-to-end on every flat surface, the soft face of a beaver mostly submerged and content. A moose and her yearling, watching us for one slow moment before slipping away. Everything suddenly shoves itself into the present tense, active voice, won't take no for an answer. Winter's coiled quiet is gone, and in its place is the tink of a baseball bat, the owl calling, the lawnmowers and barbecues, the red-winged blackbird, the rush of water, and the shock of a world that is not dead, that is not dead, after all.