Moss cubes, home

The morning started off ridiculously cold—19 at the low ebb, and if my record-keeping was better, it would probably have been a record low. But it would start warming pretty dramatically in short order. By noon, most of the snow was gone, the coating of ice that had glistened on the trees had melted, and the daffodils were upright again and dancing in the wind. In the back forest, the seasonal creek—the Noah-sized Stream, named in honor of my youngest son, who used to play there—regained its voice, which had been reduced by the chill to a whisper, and started to flow hard again, the current pumped by snow melt. In the shadier stretches, however, the moss and the rocks were still entombed under frozen water. The ice would most likely disappear soon enough, but there's increasingly shrill notes in the forecast about the return of the Polar Vortex... and yet another episode of whitening. I think I'll keep the skis ready... just in case.