I was out in the yard today, and out in the park, looking for green things and sinking my boots into snow-melt mud. At the very edge of our lawn there's a contorted pussy-willow with catkins just starting to pop out, and I stood for a minute and thought about snapping off a branch of that fuzzy February sigh of relief to put in a vase like I have for last few years, in Galesburg. For whatever reason, it does not seem so urgent here.
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