Bound to Be

Punxsutawney Phil fails to impress me.  On my evening jog tonight, bound and muffled against the wind, I heard what could have been the faintest of honks.  In hope, I frantically yanked off my hat, and, sure enough, stretched out nine-in-a-line, the first geese of the season determinedly flapped over my head, towing spring behind them.

Winter holds a lot of beauty, but at times, it seems a long, harsh season up on the hill.  The geese disappeared into the smoky stretch of horizon, and while I jogged, I stared at the narrow strip of scarlet edging the trees and kept time to my footfalls with the muttered refrain of spring, spring, spring.