The apricot sunset reflects dark spires of fir trees in the newly-open water just past the shooting range. On sunny days, the flies in the windowsill have been coming back to life. There is an indefinable but undeniable haze of color on the bare-branched trees: some red, some yellow, some green. Like anything made of magic, you can't see it straight-on.

The cows barrel outside, yelling their fool heads off and tugging bites of hay out of the bale I'm trying to carry to a clean patch of snow. The southfacing slopes are shaking themselves free, baring their breasts to the sky. The deer browse very close to the road and do not look up from their work as we pass; they knock the lids off the sugaring buckets and drink the sap.

Lacking dust, the chickens take snow-baths.

At the top of the fire-tower, the wind blows cold and wet and hard. It is terrifying and it smells like spring.