A regular critic of these footprints wrote to me this morning, and declared that they had crossed a line. The line into "mushy fluff". Actually, isn't that what footprints do? Cross lines, I mean? Anyways. I was flattered. I thought I had crossed it a long time ago.

But in an effort to counter the rosy, carpe diem attitute that I can't seem to shake, here is a wonderful little story about the bringers of spring:

Anticipation can be just about the greatest thrill you experience. Butterflies in your stomach. It's a combination of a sudden onset of a possibility, that you hadn't realized that could be coming true, the waiting for it to happen, and the danger of it not coming to pass.

Take an early onset of summer, for example. This is where, in early April, you will get a few beautiful days and you become all giddy inside and foolishly think 'Wow! Summer is about to come!' You don't care about the fact that you always get a few good days, and then it's back to late winter/early spring for another month. No. You throw the socks into the laundry bin and dig your shorts out of a box in the attic. Just to be ready. And then you scuttle about for a few days, featherbrained, until you slowly realize that you were wrong. That it was just a wonderful dream. And you come back down to earth.

The same applies to those early messengers of spring. Those playful indicators that stimulate you and fire up that anticipation of bright, warm days. Birds singing, squirrels peeking out of their winter lairs, skunks rustling in garbage, spiders busily weaving their first webs of the summer, mice scurrying about, looking for food. You can feel Nature, tossing in her sleep. A glint in her eye, as her sleep is coming to an end. So you join in. Smile at the ever-warmer sun. Carry the busy spiders out into your yard.

And then those foolish pioneers meet their fate. On the pavement. I saw my first spring roadkill this morning. It looked a little bit like a chipmunk. An ex-chipmunk, that is. Or it might have been a marsupial. It had been run over a few times, so it was hard to tell. A couple of birds were busily picking at it. It was still fresh, the heat rising from it in the cool morning air. This poor, demented thing had obviously wandered out of its burrow, thinking that summer had arrived. Not being all that familiar with the dynamics of those deadly strips of pavement that litter the landscape, it wandered in its still slumbery state onto one of them and splat!

No more spring. No more twinkle in Nature's eye. She has already turned over to the other side, snoring profusely.

I refuse to remain the fool. I am going skiing. Seeya.

The music: Terry Snyder; Earl Palmer / Binga Banga Bongo

No sooner had I posted this last post than the phone rang. I was surprised, since it's quite late, at least for this region. On the other end of the line was my riding partner. With whom I am going skiing tomorrow, incidently. She had just misdialled. Didn't mean to call me at all. But! We now plan to get our bikes out and start riding. Maybe as soon as this weekend.

I am telling you, it is speaking. The hot voice of summer.

Come out to play! To miss the opportunity is a crime.

Sometimes, I just drive.

I may be on my way home, after dropping my daughter off at the daycare, and I will just keep on driving. And driving. And driving. This will go on for an hour. Or two. There is a definite benefit to having interstates nearby that go in all four major directions. And a decent car to drive on all of them. In an hour, I can easily be 60 or 70 miles away. Somewhere that I have never been before.

Yes, even though I have now lived here for almost two years, I am still finding places nearby that I haven't seen before. Lakes, rivers, mountains, villages, people, diners, book shops, churches, train stations.

Speaking of trains. I really like them. If the trains here were not so completely devoid of the otherwise inherent romance of railroad travelling, I would have jumped on one of them for a day-trip into the unknown a long time ago. I guess I'll have to go back to Europe to do something like that.

Anyways. Yesterday morning, I suddenly found myself miles from home. On my way to someplace I did not recognize. Tall, bare trees lined the road. After a looong drive, I finally stopped by the side of the road where this never-ending wall of overgrown toothpicks gave way to a small clearing. I stepped out of the car and into this quiet haven. Despite the silence, it felt as if there was an urgency in the air. As if there was something that needed to be said. I walked along banks of mostly amber yellow, where small sprouts with a malachite and aquamarine hue were starting to appear. Overhead, I heard familiar voices of those blessed with the ability to fly, praising their gift in a song. The whole scene was trying to speak, straining to convey a meaning. A message. A feeling. Just like my little girl does sometimes, when she looks at me sternly and says, exasperated: Gu-JOOOL-ie dOO! And nothing. Not a glimpse of understanding in those big, dumb eyes of her father. How frustrating! Having all this to say, and no way of getting it across.

I took off my jacket, for the first time outside in a long time, and sat down. More sage, viridian, beryl. I felt I could almost hear the words. A brush of wind stroked the tree branches and rustled a few leaves, still lingering from last year. I looked around. Chartreuse, kelly, lime.

Then I finally got it. Green! It's all turning green! Not right away. And only very slowly. But it's coming. Summer is coming! And the sun will become warm like a hearty smile.

Come and let me embrace you, sweet season. I promise to savor every singly day that you can spare.

Coming here, to the library, to work is great. Working in different surroundings is good for the productivity. Every now and then. Being away from the phones, fax, etc. also means that I can usually get more done.

Except today. The ephemeral beauty of the forrest, in this misty light, is spellbinding. I am sitting in a corner by a large window, overlooking the sea of trees that the building seems to be floating on. I can just barely see above the treetops, which form valleys and ridges of green in every direction. Actually, more like brown-gray, with some pine-green thrown in here and there for good measure.

There is something overwhelmingly calm about this height. This is the kingdom of giants and majestic birds. And with the ocean of branches covering the ground, there is no evidence of the hustle and bustle of the humans beneath.

It is good to take a break from people, from time to time. It can wear you down, hoping and thinking and laughing and listening and longing and waiting and planning and answering, when all you want to do is be. Quietly. To rest your senses. It doesn't have to be a solitary excercise. In fact it's better when you have somebody to do that with.

But when you don't, it is still good to have a library to go to. And a calm sea to look out at.