¶The first meadowlark singing down on the prairie between here and Florence.
¶Mourning-cloak butterflies.
¶Northern flickers yammering and hammering on utility poles--they have been doing it for two weeks now.
¶
¶So let's have a another spring blizzard. We need the moisture.
¶But the one that still affects me is the smell of burning grass. At once I think, "Ohmygod, I've got to clean the ditch."
But it has been fifteen years since I owned ditch shares in Canon City. That wandering lateral ditch along the bluff is no longer my concern. But something in my memory gets me looking around for a shovel and a propane torch come March and ditch-cleaning season.
Is this like post-traumatic stress syndrome for gardeners?
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