Two days after Christmas, a storm ripped through this part of the Sierra Nevada foothills. It destroyed powerlines, toppled oak and spruce trees onto cars and houses and buried roads under tons of snow. But January and February were mild and dry; not a drop of rain or flake of snow fell on us.
Then a few days ago, on the first Saturday in March, we woke up in a cold, white world. I went outside to feed the birds and noticed a cluster of daffodils bent under the weight of snow. When I painted them four winters ago, there were only two flowers. Now there are six.
I wanted to paint them again, but there was some task to accomplish, some place to go that seemed important. So all I can offer now are these two yellow bells, and a few green fingers sprouting up out of the dirt. And yes, the promise of another Spring.