Finally, after a few days of sun and warmth, the thick shell of ice and snow--over a feet deep in places--had receded and patches of greenish brown started to show again. You could tell the deer were pleased to find uncovered ground to hoof and paw. The pond in the back that had finally frozen over enough for me to start shoveling in hopes of skating (I still don't even have skates!) was starting to return to liquid, in waves of melt off I could see from the kitchen. It felt like life. A woman I know who brings her artisanal cheeses to the winery said excitedly: you can smell the earth! And I agreed that just the night before I noticed the smell of wet dirt, that fills you with such force after the sterile smell of ice for so long.

And now, now it is snowing again. The green patches are white again. The apple tree and the roof of the empty feeder dangling from a branch are lined with fluffy snow. It's no longer magical, no longer a thrill. And the realization that we have quite a ways to go before the green comes back stabs at you. It's a pain, really, like when you look at a picture of summer how green it all seems.