Early spring stands at the threshold, neither winter nor summer, but something braver than both. The air still carries a chill, yet it no longer bites; it merely reminds. The earth, which only weeks ago lay sealed and silent, now exhales.
Look closely and you will see it — a sheen of green pushing through hedgerows, the first stubborn shoots piercing soil that seemed lifeless. The trees, bare and architectural against grey skies, begin to soften. Buds gather at their tips like thoughts not yet spoken.
There is a patience in this season. It does not arrive in a blaze. It whispers. A brighter morning here, a longer evening there. Light lingers, reluctant to retreat. The sun, pale but determined, rehearses its strength.
Streams quicken with thawed rain. Lambs find their footing on unsteady legs. Birds rehearse old songs as if rediscovering the shape of them. The world does not awaken all at once; it stirs, stretches, remembers itself.
Early spring is promise without guarantee. It is hope tempered by frost. It teaches that renewal is rarely dramatic. It comes quietly, in increments — in softened ground, in lengthened days, in the faintest green line along a branch.
