By the end of February in southern Illinois, winter has worn out its welcome — but it hasn’t quite left. And here we are in March. More of the same, but with some hope attached.
The snow is mostly gone. The heavy gray skies are beginning to fracture into blue. Red maples along the creeks show the faintest blush of color. And yet, we are not fully delivered into spring. We are suspended — in mud, in wind, in want.
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