One month ago at this moment our yard was silent and white. A foot of snow covered everything, including the lake. The pines had a light frosting of white and the darker bark of the elms and walnuts stood out from it all.
Nothing moved. No sound but a tractor in the distance.
Today, the grass is turning green and the tiniest buds on the trees give them each a peculiar green halo. The lake is alive with birds and something, otter or muskrat or beaver, swimming just at the surface, scaring the birds into short bursts of flight.
And the trees are alive with other birds, noisy birds, cackling screeching singing flapping chirping chittering warbling birds. Red, yellow, blue, black and white, large and small.
I have lived places where the change of the seasons was an astronomical event marked by the calendar.
Folks who live here in the frozen north prefer the stark contrasts, the intensity.
The sun shines a little more bright some places.