i’m driving winding roads again. Green on all sides, a first since the Northeast coast, in Wabanaki and Penobscot territory. Here, a slow rain is pattering down through ancient pines into stubborn snow, the last of which clings to the earth’s edges, collecting dirt. The droplets are plump. They hang lazily in the air as if unwilling to show up on time to fall together. Instead they simply appear, like so many beads of sweat from pores of skin, one by one. i can’t even set the windshield wipers on auto, so gently does this rain fall.

i wonder if i’ve been dreaming. i wonder for how long. i try to arrange the moments chronologically. i try to reassure myself of reality. i am at a loss, though i have a feeling of winning overall.

i pull the car over to admire the pines. The remnant snow snuck into corners like children hiding from bedtime. There are mountain lions in there, i’ve heard tell. And fresh pine nuts if you know how to look.

i have known very few springtimes that were not illustrated by sweet rain on filthy snow. This reality tickles consistent memories: a cycle i can rely on. i smell the cleansed air, the touch of cold. Moisture in the air brings it closer to something i know.

i roll the window down to breathe deep of this reassuring atmosphere. i tilt my head out to let the rain hit my sun-kissed face. A wet cleanse after a fevered dream. Winter making way for spring.