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This morning I scuffed through snow to get the daily paper, and skimmed through the sports section stuffed with news about skiing and skating. But then I heard something -- something besides the chickadees singing "Hi sweetie!", or the murmur of the ice-choked river a quarter mile away.
I heard winter's back breaking.
It makes a sound that's hard to hear at first: a muffled intermittant popping sound. I listened harder, and the popping became louder and more distinct. A sharp, snapping pop, and now I could hear something like voices accompanying it. Voices talking, laughing, shouting, and that POP! POP! POP!
Spring Training camps open this week. The popping sound is the satisfying smack of a ball hitting a mitt, each pop raising a little cloud of dust that hangs in the sunny air. The voices ring across sun-drenched infields, as the players regrouping after the long winter layoff greet each other, and catch up, and greet newcomers, and rehash the winter's changes to their teams. There are smaller voices, too: kids of all sizes, wearing their chosen team's colors are proudly as any medieval knight's heraldry, shouting to their heroes from the bleachers, clutching the chain-link fences around the practice fields, hoping for a glimpse of thier favorite pitcher or catcher or early-arriving fielder and slugger.
It's February still; I know that. The river is still full of ice, I know there's a storm coming tomorrow, and arctic air to follow. The leaves won't be green here for another three months. But winter's back has broken, and that's all that counts.
I heard winter's back breaking.
It makes a sound that's hard to hear at first: a muffled intermittant popping sound. I listened harder, and the popping became louder and more distinct. A sharp, snapping pop, and now I could hear something like voices accompanying it. Voices talking, laughing, shouting, and that POP! POP! POP!
Spring Training camps open this week. The popping sound is the satisfying smack of a ball hitting a mitt, each pop raising a little cloud of dust that hangs in the sunny air. The voices ring across sun-drenched infields, as the players regrouping after the long winter layoff greet each other, and catch up, and greet newcomers, and rehash the winter's changes to their teams. There are smaller voices, too: kids of all sizes, wearing their chosen team's colors are proudly as any medieval knight's heraldry, shouting to their heroes from the bleachers, clutching the chain-link fences around the practice fields, hoping for a glimpse of thier favorite pitcher or catcher or early-arriving fielder and slugger.
It's February still; I know that. The river is still full of ice, I know there's a storm coming tomorrow, and arctic air to follow. The leaves won't be green here for another three months. But winter's back has broken, and that's all that counts.
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