You can almost sense it.
The rush of water is all around.
Across the drive, the creek has overrun its banks--surging through the broad, low fields, large ice masses bobbing in frothy brown.
Most of last week’s snow has melted leaving the tired, green ground soft beneath it.
And on the pond, 2 inches of cold, clear water stands in puddles on the dark, soft surface of the ice.
The last two summers have been hard on the trees.
Heat and drought have stressed them badly, our Sugar Maples barely holding leaves through a parched fall.
But, autumn rains restore, and through winter days they have rested, hopefully with us, still.
The feel of this quiet, warm day is right.
Sun shining brightly against the trunks,
carefully, the first hole is drilled.
A clear drop eagerly rushes forth, then another and another.
Until they fall in a stream, cool and clean.
And, with each drop safely collected and stored, this year, once again, we will make syrup--
the golden gift of spring.