continued (page 5 of 5)
But under the ice and the snow the buds ate swelling at the end of this month of house imprisonment. All at once the willows in the marsh have turned a bright green. You think it is a small snow squall beside the road. But it isn't. It is the year's first pussy willows speckling the air with hope, clinging like drops of snow to the willow withes.
And deep in the dead woods a woodpecker is knocking loud at the door of spring, for February is nearly gone.
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