Waiting for Spring

I’m waiting for spring. Not to arrive because we are a month in, but Old Man Winter is (once again) overstaying his welcome. Mother nature keeps her promises, but she does it in her own sweet time. She is dictated to by no human.

The other day, as I hiked up a steep hill, I watched three vultures circle. Not far above the treetops. What were they be looking at? I wondered. Was it Jack Frost? Was he sick? Near death? The vultures circled.

At the top of the hill, there was an empty bird nest (from last year) perched on a branch in a small tree. Hope.

Hope of the new season that I know will emerge sooner or later. Hope for spring that will bring new life. Hope. And the sleet began to blow against my cheek like 100 needles hitting me before they plunked to the ground. It was not the frozen ground of winter. No, it was a softening ground, a wet ground. The sleet or the snow will not remain for long. Still, they are here and I am left to wait.

Wait with the rest of the people living in this area of unseasonable cold. As I declined the hill I pull up the hood of my rain jacket. Not quite cold enough for winter gear. I brought along spring things to keep me dry and protect me from the wind. The sleet against my hood made a crackling noise like a fire. But I didn’t feel the comforting warmth a fire wood give. No, instead I felt the chill entering every opening of my jacket and on my face, my hands.

Some chickadees joined other spring birds in protest of the weather. I wonder if they were getting tired of waiting for Mother Nature to make good on her promise. Old Man Winter is reluctant to leave this year. I wish someone or something would show him the door.