Before noon…and the air smells like snow and Sangria. My windows are open, letting in baby lush spring air…blowing up from the South, struggling over muddy ruts and thawing fields…eager to make an impression on rooftops opening reluctantly to receive the sun.
Behold…four large geese perch quietly atop one of the newest built houses. The wind ripples their feathers and they watch the slow line of winding traffic exit the development.
A new neighbor, once a stranger to me…another fragile human walking this earth’s road…waves heartily and heads over to chat. He holds out his hands, wincing as he shows me his fresh, raw blisters. The winter has rendered his hands soft and unused to outdoor labor.
We are joined for a moment in the common thread of sympathy, a discussion about the drainage pond and the returning geese, the rare marriage which lasts over 50 years, his stint in the US Navy.
I am eager to be on my way now.
The wind is nipping at my heels and calling me down the hill…and over the dale on this Maundy Thursday, toward the death of winter and into all the promises that this new life holds…
690 Saint Paul 