It's mid-March. By this time of year, people who live in the northern hemisphere want warmth. Stronger sun. Liquid water. At the moment, we have something in between.

Slush.

Ice fishermen, desperate to snag one last attempt at being able to walk across almost-frozen water in an attempt to lure the possibility of a bite through a teeny hole drilled into the waning ice, sat on buckets with rods poised today, looking part sad, part hopeful. The river is waking up from its hibernal slumber. Puddles the color of old urine form in pockets along the ice as the chemistry of the river begins to change. Despite the 'polar vortex' and the miserable promise of 'cooler than seasonal temperatures' for the next three weeks, a thaw has begun. The first pockets of open water far out on the wider part of the river shine a somber blue. There's no safety venturing out on this ice much longer.

Nothing's nicer than the twinkle of sun dappling open water in summer. It sparkles like a new diamond right out of Spring's gift box. It reflects the vastness of the sky. It invites you in for a swim, a paddle, a stroll along its edges. It taunts fish with the dance of fireflies and dragonflies who drift close to its surface.

When you crawl out of a long winter, it can feel like eons since you've seen the above. Your snow-weary eyes grasp for anything of color besides the dirty alabaster wash of fading snow banks. You spot that fleck of green as a tiny weed caught in a sidewalk crack reaches for the still-weak sun and your heart soars over such a tiny gift.

Yes. We all need greenery and sun and the ability to walk barefoot over lawns again. It is essential.

Our weather forecasters with their tales of upcoming mayhem in the form of more freezing rain, tempest winds, and below zero night temperatures sound almost delightful, as if springing a box of terrible party surprises at the load of us hanging onto their words with the hope for some eventual optimism as we crawl towards the month of April. 

And the fishermen pull their ice shacks and toboggans back to their cars, their outdoor gear sodden with damp, their rubber boots sloshing through water riding the ice surface, to throw on car heaters and briskly rub hands together. Soon enough, they'll haul their boats from garages and beneath tarps, prime engines, prepare rods, reels, and bait, and advance on what we all hope will soon be the sparkling blue, once again.

This time of year is like a held breath; it contains the strained anticipation of waiting for something that lingers close by...but never quite close enough to touch.

It is almost like a dream, those hot summer nights when bone-like chunks of sun-bleached driftwood washes onto shore, and feet leave imprints in wet sand that soon fill with water. I've almost forgotten what the song of cicada sounds like; that drone so high-pitched that your ears almost hum painfully. It is the sound of high summer, of starlit nights, camp fire smoke, cold beers stacked in buckets of ice, the promise of a barbecue, the slow swing of a hammock, the scents of fresh pine needles, morning dew and sweet soil - summer, we miss you.

Open river, as you awaken again, so do we, us winter people. We open our eyes and arms together. Soon enough, we'll come to your shores and dance along your edges; we'll skip stones to tickle your surface and our laughter will be like poetry across your wind-swept waves. The gentle rocking of docks touching, the throat of a frog creating song, the melancholy note of a loon off in the distance.

The river is awakening, once again, after the long season. And so are we.