Friday, April 7, 2023

The cat's First Foray

 

All winter the cat ignores the door.  One unusually warm day I eased her out with a gentle "Here ya go," and watched the window for her scratch to get back in.  Other than that, all winter she is an indoor cat.  Then there is a not-so-cold day followed by a warm day, and the cat sniffs, but saunters by.  Finally, today is the day.  I come in and here she is at my feet, whiskers sweeping with each twitch of her nose as she creeps toward the fresh air in her amazing slow-mo Michael Jackson Moon Walk.

That is how we country folk measure the changes of seasons.  The cat's first foray.

Snow and its inevitable retreat from the sun is another measure.  The day we pack up the cleats and the poles.  The last hurrah to the snowmobilers.  

It is the melting snow that dictates the river that now threatens to overflow.  Every few years it washes out the road, isolating us from civilization.  Two days ago, with a lot of snow on the ground, we had a day of steady rain.  That's the recipe.  If we make it through today we'll be safe for another year.*

And down south it looks like the death of a long dark winter will not warm quietly into the spring.  There may be a messy butchering.  But if a bull is running wild, what can be done?  

And the birth of the new season?  Will we sail in baring an olive branch to those who were taken in by fear and ignorance?  Or will we let our own fear convince us they need eradication?  

*The cat came in at the end of the day.  The river did not overflow.