Spring – You Two-Timing, Backstabbing Trollop

Ah, spring is in the air.

The grass has started to blush green again here in the north country, the trees are putting on their little bud bonnets, and the birds are out there singing like Disney just handed them a recording contract. Robins have been back for weeks now, smugly yanking worms out of the ground like this is an all-you-can-eat buffet. Ducks and geese have returned to the ponds, paddling around like they never left, holding little reunions and probably judging my muddy boots.

Everything was going according to the Welcome to Spring script.

The goats have kidded and the babies are bouncing around the barn like caffeinated toddlers in a bounce house. New chicks are growing so fast, I swear one of them looked me dead in the eye yesterday and asked for the Wi-Fi password.

Yes, spring is in the air.

So WHY did I wake up this morning to a scene straight out of a snow globe?!

Not a charming, poetic “last hurrah” either. No. I’m talking full-blown, cover-the-yard, hide-the-daffodils, slap-you-in-the-face SNOW. AGAIN. Honestly, it looked like Frosty the Snowman threw a tantrum and exploded in my front yard.

One of the robins was standing on the porch rail with his feathers puffed up and his beak open like he was mid-complaint with corporate. The goats came out, took one look, and slowly backed into the barn. The chickens are madder than wet hens—because they are wet hens—and the ducks? Oh, they’re thrilled. Jerks.

I’m over it, Mother Nature. You hear me? OVER. IT.

We’ve shoveled. We’ve snow-blowed. We’ve made snowmen and pretended to enjoy hot cocoa while frostbite gnawed at our toes. I’ve run out of adjectives for “pretty” snow and started describing it as “aggressively white sky-dandruff.” We are DONE here.

You had your chance. Spring arrived. We were ready to forgive and forget. And you go and do this?

Listen, I don’t want to sound ungrateful—but if I see one more snowflake, I’m going to start mailing you passive-aggressive weather reports written entirely in goat hoofprints.

So unless this snow is part of some cosmic April Fool’s joke that got lost in the mail, please do us all a favor and CUT. IT. OUT.

Spring in the north country: where hope sprouts, slips on ice, and gets body-checked into a snowbank by winter—then winter takes your lunch money.

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©2015 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm