The last mountain of snow has melted down to a molehill and we’re seeing signs of spring. Some signs, like the mud that turns our dirt road into an extended series of speed bumps, are more obvious than others.
Everyone deals with mud season in their own way. Someone was reveling in it, deciding a drive through the muddy corn field at the end of the town road was better than waiting at the stop sign a few feet away, apparently prompting the field’s owner to plant this sign of spring a few days later. I don’t know why, but I get a kick out of it every time I’m sitting at the stop sign.