Spring is here, though the snow’s still blanketing the ground. It’s in the light, the sun’s a little brighter, higher, and the fir trees shimmer. I ski between trees—cedar, pine, and the fir—on trails groomed, it seems, just for me. This way of moving’s new for me, and I have to look at my feet often. And I fall, often. It’s mostly a slow careful traipse through the woods. But spring’s so insistent, I have to stop and look up—grey branches, grey-green needles, and shards of blue. I keep having to try the new, the difficult, wind through unknown passages, to feel the miracle of body. If I’m lucky, I can take these new eyes home with me, and see my backyard—rose bushes, sweet peas, plum tree—with the same wonder of all this new view.