It's a cloudy morning in western Vermont. The grass is patched with snow, though daffodils are brilliant along the house's sheltered southern face. Yesterday, as my mom and I walked the edges of the fields, we saw goldfinches spraying up out of the brush, their summer-yellow incongruous against the snowy backdrop. Green grass argued with a lowering sky. The season cannot make up its mind.

Today I expect the last of the snow will melt away. My dad has not planted anything yet, but his garden is tilled and ready. Maybe we'll have a chance to work outside, or maybe not. The air is harsh but milding, chill but shifting. Spring does not want anyone to make plans yet.