It has been a long week, with storm after storm blowing over The Rockies, hiding the sun from view, with low, grey skies, snow and biting wind, and temperatures in the single digits. Snow never lasts long here in Denver, and even the fiercest of storms become memory only a few hours after passing. We are blessed with nearly three-hundred thirty sunny days a year and even on the coldest of days that sunlight still manages to make winter bearable.
Last night we fell asleep to the sound of snow pattering the ice below, the sky orange from the low clouds reflecting the lights of the city, a stinging wind rattling the windows. This morning we were greeted by the sun, new and bright and delicious in the high, blue sky. It was cold but that sunshine made it seem less so. We arose early and walked to the sound of snow falling in great melting clumps from the branches, striking the grass with loud, wet slaps while the ice in the rain gutters broke apart and raced earthward with a cacophonous crunch.
By noon it was as though we'd dreamed the storms. The grass had not only broken through four inches of snowy crust, but had devoured it, leaving a bright green blanket where yesterday there had been slushy footprints and ice razors along the edges of the curbs. It was as though none of it had happened. Duncan pulled on his leash in that way that tells me he has a destination in mind and that I should simply allow myself to pulled along after him. So I followed, thankful for the sound of the birds and the evaporating puddles in the parking lot and the guidance of my good, red dog.
And then, quite near to where we started our walk, Duncan stopped at a small green patch along the red painted curb and nosed a clump of dandelions that had unfurled and were waving down the sun with their tiny, gold petals. Weeds, but joyous nonetheless. I greeted them happily and reminded myself that a weed is only that thing that is unwelcome, still beautiful but out of place. My friend Kevi is always quick to remind me that if I wanted to grow dandelions even the most luscious of roses would become a weed springing up amid their yellow splendor.
Hello, Spring, I thought as Duncan turned away, happy to have led me to the place he wanted me to see, and rolled in one of the few fading patches of snow left for him to enjoy.