Today, on the Southern shore of Maryland, we traipsed through woods and found a mother swan settled on her nest.
One portent of Spring. Another is the dirt cracking in the garden, the plants and rocks shoving up through the once-frozen soil. And yet another is the rhubarb, blood-red globules poking through last year's leaves blackened with rot. Pussy willow fuzzies float on the tepid breeze.
A musty earthiness fills the air with promise.