“But that isn’t accurate,” she thought, and she always liked to be accurate, even when musing within herself. It wasn’t really spring she was looking forward to. Summer was what Birdie longed for.
Spring wasn’t as idyllic as it was cracked up to be. Not with its mud and wind and the fitful changing of it’s mind between warm pleasant days and rude freezing temperatures. But she welcomed it just the same, because it was the prelude to summer.
Birdie guessed that spring really had to be the way it was here where she lived in her Colorado mountain valley. At an elevation of 8,000 feet, winter was not going to meekly step off stage. A certain amount of shaking and flinging was in order. Some upheaval. A strategy that included warm persuasion one day and the cold shoulder the next. Here in the Rockies, spring was not a young girl in an organdy dress with violets in her hair. She was a raging wife who has come home to find her house neglected. She throws open the windows and doors to let the wind blow through, displacing the gloom and dirt that are the ash of winter’s fires gone out.