In the almost-spring weather, Desiree and I walked our road, seemingly stirred without forethought, through the swell of hills near our house. With sunlight threading through the widely scattered bull pine and unruly collections of juniper, the snow had receded to shadowed lees and earthen cuttles.
The sun somewhat oversells itself in
Montana this time of year, and with warming faces, Desiree and I found
ourselves chatting about planting an apple tree. “Don’t forget,” I reminded
Desiree, “we live on a literal pile of rocks. We will need to dig a big hole
first.”
Desiree merely smiled in response.
I mark spring by the sight of my
first returned bluebird. This typically occurs somewhere in the middle of
March. This year, sometime after seeing my first bluebird, I shall dig a hole
in the earth.
—Mitchell Hegman
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