Archives for March 1993

Spring, 1993

Sunrise, Saturday morning. For the last 10 minutes, I’ve been watching the sky reveal ever more detail of the splendor she holds. As daybreak proceeds, the blanket of darkness is pulled back, and an incredible picture of rapidly moving clouds and changing patterns begins to take its place.

It has rained for the last 2 days, and everything is covered in a fine sheet of ice. The grass makes a brittle crackling noise as it reluctantly bends under the weight of my steps.

Yet despite the cold, the morning has the feel of an early spring day — the number of birds calling from afar fills the air with a variety of unique and intricate sounds.

And slowly, the call of morning doves begin to fade, and a dog can be heard barking in the distance. As I write, a whole flock of tiny somethings fly overhead, each and every one calling out to its neighbor in flight.

On the edges of this field, in front of the houses, a few people step outside momentarily to fetch their paper or let out their dog. The people are bundled up like Eskimos — their bleary eyed bodies not yet ready to face the day.

But the animals — they are out in force. For they know that just as sure as the newly melted ice beneath my bottom, winter is on its way out, and spring is almost here.



March 21, 1993 — the first day of spring has finally arrived. Though there have been several days in the last few weeks when spring gave the appearance of having already arrived, winter then dumped a foot of snow on us last weekend to violently assert its power and right to be here.

So spring waited quietly around the corner and upon the duly appointed day, with equal strength and beauty did banish the snow and cold for yet another year.

I awoke this morning at the crack of noon, and knew that it was time to go for a run. The moment I stepped out the door, the light was blinding, and the air simply forced its way deep into my lungs, exclaiming "Breath me! Come alive and be free!"

As I walked through mounds and puddles of lingering snow scattered about along my path, it crumbled and let out an agonizing CRUNCHING sound beneath my feet. It tried desperately to cling to my leg and hide in my shoe, but as I burst into full speed on the pavement, the snow was hurled to the ground as drops of water, destined to continue its never ending journey back to the seas.

In fact, as I continued on my path, every crevice, gully, and curb side was over flowing with the water from melted snow that simply could not run fast enough to escape the energy of the fresh spring weather.

At the entrance to roadside sewers, the snow had formed gigantic overhangs where the rushing water had eroded the base faster than the crown. At the slightest touch of my hand, a 2-foot section of ice collapsed, falling flat on the ground and shattering. Defeated, the winter has no choice but to retreat.

There is no pre-defined path I am following today — I am simply running, going wherever I fancy. The road comes to an end, and I decide to continue forward through the forest until I again intersect a more navigable path. Along my way, I pass playgrounds that are teaming with children yelling and screaming their hearts delight. They are covered in mud, but one would think they were just let out of prison, and have more energy than they know what to do with.

Eventually, I cross a wooden bridge that I have never seen before, due more to my lack of exploring than its desire to remain hidden. An old crow lands on the railing close enough to me that I could touch it if I tried. It seems to be staring me in the face as it CAWS out at me with volume I have never before experienced. It stayed for only a moment, then flew off into the distance.

In the cracks of the railing beneath where the crow perched, there are a few dead leaves left over from last autumn. As I reach for them, they crumble into dust and slip through the cracks of my fingers. A gust of wind carries the fragments to the forest floor, and I know that as the cycles of nature forever repeat themselves, those pieces will one day live again.


Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman