March in the In-Between
Here in the Finger Lakes, March has a way of revealing truths we spend the brighter months avoiding. The sky, washed in a thin gray that never quite lifts, presses gently on the shoulders. The fields rest in muted tones—grass still holding winter’s brown, last autumn’s leaves matted to the earth, branches scattered after a…
Standing in March
March in the Finger Lakes is a practiced trickster—an old friend who knocks at the door with one hand while hiding snow behind her back with the other. By now, I’ve learned not to trust her entirely, yet each year I fall for her charms all over again. A few days ago, the world blazed…
At the Edge of Thaw
Mist lay heavy across the field—the kind that hushes the land before the day can fully wake. I stood at the roadside and looked across the long reach of acreage, winter-worn and slowly thawing. Snow retreated in irregular patches, the earth showing itself in strips and seams. Row upon row of corn stubble pushed through…
In My Words 