It's still March in Maine. That's a good thing.

            A constant undercurrent of fear engendered by this looming viral siege makes me forget that it’s completely safe for me to go out walking in the open air, even therapeutic. On this brilliant March morning, sharp, clean gusts of wind worked to sweep away the detritus of winter. Pond ice lingers, shrinking at the edges each day, refreezing overnight. In the fields, a few patches of crusted snow cling to low points, or north-facing tree stands, or the shadow line of a barn roof. The bare branches of trees, stiff with cold, make metallic creaks as they click and slide over each other in the wind. Still, the oak trees’ twig-tips reach high into the deep blue sky, swollen and tinged with color in the morning light, preparing to begin their marvel of reproductive unfurling. The wind ruffles the dogs’ fur, flings my scarf across my face, wakes me up. I take a deep breath, smile.
            People say that March is Maine’s worst month – muddy, cold, lifeless. I disagree. March in Maine is rife with promise, even now. 
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 208: 178 words, TOTAL = 34,172; 25,828 remaining