The willow trees near the main road are sending out shoots of yellow green, and it’s clear the mountains are about to explode in a myriad of greens. For now, though, the daffodils and the tiny sunlit green dots on the trees cast a glow over our small town.
The Dairy Bar is open now, and people are stopping in for ice cream after Little League or for a sunny batter-dipped dinner after work. The air is thick with the smell of manure-plowed fields and fruit blossoms. At the market, the pansies are being replaced by petunias as the days grow longer, and bales of straw are being stacked for gardeners emerging from their hibernation.
I’m watching a story that’s being told again in small towns across the country. I’ve seen it unfold over ten times now, and it’s a tale that never gets old.