Never quite beyond what we think we’re beyond here, not in Montana, not anymore. We huddle and brace and hold tight through the frozen months, we rejoice at the first robin we spy, the first bluebird that carries hope on those shining wings. Still, nagging and rooted behind all this, deeper in the soil of us, is that realization that the cold can always return, that it so nearly always does. The instant we think ourselves out of the woods, the cold returns, the snow falls once more, and all that green we hoped for is once again white, the Spring we wait for like ritual and promise once again halted.
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