I knew there was snow in the forecast but I refused to believe it. Every part of me that has been relishing the taste and feel of sunshine on my skin these past seven days rejected the idea as preposterous. I didn't want to believe that these delicate new spring buds on the trees and the greening grass underfoot would soon be under what some forecasts are predicting could be anywhere from six to eighteen inches of snow, with the temperature tomorrow refusing to climb above twenty degrees. It was warm today, cloudy but warm, and even though the skies to the north and west looked agitated and temperamental I held on to the hope that maybe the Rockies would break and shatter it, send it scattering south and north or in any direction but ours. But tonight as Duncan sat on the hillside in The Glen chewing on a stick, I watched the cold wind toss the hair of his ears, watched him turn his face northward into it, watched him close his eyes, lift his nose and breath in the fragrance of coming snow like the scent of bread baking in the oven. He is not dreading it like those of us who live along the Front Range are dreading it. We are idiots because even though we all know that March and April are our snowiest months of the year, we allow the fickle temptation of spring to seduce us into believing that perhaps this year will be different, that maybe this year the snow will forget about us and leave us to our shorts and open windows while we drive, to the rich smells of meat grilling on our barbeques and the glowing blue-green promise of the waiting swimming pools.
Duncan savors the snows as much as he savors his dinner. And while my plate is full of thoughts of tomorrow's weather, his is full of hopes of rolling in the snow, pulling it around him, snorting it and eating it up as gluttonously as the dinner waiting for him when we got home.
And I, of course, find neither particularly appetizing.