The ice began to melt over the weekend, and Sunday evening before the Grammy Awards, the thicker ice from upstream broke free and swept downstream, with a crash and churn of water. We walked outside to watch it. The peices would slip underneath each other and pop back out. Others crowded along the bank only to be lifted over the edge by the rising water.
When we woke up the next morning we found piles of ice at the river's edge.
However, it has turned the world to the color it reaches as we near the spring, the bland grays and browns of March before the grass grows.
Everywhere I walk, the ground squelches as if I stood on a sodden sponge. It is unpleasant.
There is the footprint of Darcy, my dog, and a racoon left much earlier.
I had wanted the Malabrigo so much, and my need for color was so great, that I went to Warsaw today and grabbed a skein as quickly as I could. Pausing only for it to be wound into a ball, I left.
Here is the sun.
And now I feel better.
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