A few days ago, I picked pussy willows along the Harte Trail. I’ve not picked them this late in the season before—this—my fifth spring of retirement. I’m enjoying every slow, energizing moment of it. The backyard trees—all grown up now like my children—are still bare, with maybe a slight thickening of buds, but no hint of green. Still, expectation of growth surges through my veins like tree sap.
Some call this hockey playoff season.
I call it spring. Finally.
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