As I leaned over and dug in the cool, rich soil my Silas came up underneath me and nosed my chin. We stayed there, locked in a moment, him expressing his love, me accepting it. He ventured off, to gnaw on a bone probably, and I continued digging.
I dug and turned the soil, separating the clumps of sod until I couldn't stand up straight anymore, at which time I surmised that was as good a time to stop as any. And that digging in the soil, dreaming of the food that will grow there, in my garden, made me take a look around and when I did...I saw promise.
Tiny green shoots have popped up out of the dirt, showing the location of bulbs someone before me took the time to plant. A large bush with shiny leaves (rhododendron or azalea?) has tiny, hard buds waiting for their time to unfold. A close look at the bald cherry tree shows something, a hint, tiny growths at the ends of the branches.
The light is different. It seems to be one of the first changes I notice. Like the first hint of dawn at the end of a long night. I won't fool myself and say Spring has sprung, fully understanding there are still 45 days until the calendar welcomes her in. But the little kindle of knowing has lit, and I sing like a bird before first light, knowing that the light is coming.