Trafficking in spring. This a somewhat mean statement as snows continue to fly in the Rockies. I suppose to ask for green warmth is illicit, almost a failing to anticipate. It’s beautiful, if tiring, waking to another 7 inches of white world. Painted upon everything, no telephone pole or mailbox not entombed. I wander not completely in a straight line. The road is without track, the good patrons of Sunday morning not-so-secretly feckless. We acquire the remnants of hibernation and dawn them for another quiet ride. Sure the sun makes appearances, but the consolation is weak and unlettered.
