Spring Sandwich

When we first moved to Montana, I watched and re-watched this phenomenal BBC series called 'Seasons of Yellowstone." It's a three-part series, one for each season, save spring. Why was spring neglected, I wondered, sometimes aloud, which exposed me to multiple responses along the lines of, "it doesn't exist here," or "do you mean mud season?"

I've always loved spring, including Easter in all its pastel garnishness, and never more than since Stella arrived one early April day. Her birth kicks of the inception of the season for me, and we always celebrate it with flats of strawberries from the farmer's market.

I've very attached to this tradition, and so had some sadness about losing our ritual when we moved to Montana, where there are no local strawberries in early April, and probably none until August.

Stella was unflapped by the whole thing, "don't worry, we'll make a snowberry!"

Turns out that we didn't make a snowberry on her birthday. Instead, we celebrated outside on sodden and heavy grass, which didn't seem to affect anyone's spirits at all.  

The girls made piñatas and strung them from the tree.

My girl dug her wheelbarrow gift!

Soon, warm nights - warm enough for dinner outside and sprinkler fests - arrived:

The chickens moved outside, and I put away the snow pants. The next day, I awoke to this scene outside our window:

Truly, it was the next day.

And then the next:

Spring fights gallantly for its place in our mountain valley. Unlike its arrival in more temperate locales, there are few boughs of bright colors, nor flamboyant displays of petals to herald its return.

Without such dazzling distractions, I'm left to notice, and admire, and be unable to get my mind off of, the riot of the returning birds, the endless bickering of the male ducks in our pond as they fight for the attention of the unimpressed female, and the light that lingers later and later into the night.