I find something heroic about mud season, the hard-to-love transition between winter and spring. Winter is a time of preserving warmth, of burrowing in, of getting by, of watching things sleep and die. Its stark, bare beauty demands respect. Spring is more obvious and showy, cute baby ducks and exuberant flowers. Other than a bit of resentment over its self-absorbed success, what is there not to love about spring? Mud season is harder to love. It is neither reserved and respectable, nor fresh-faced and optimistic. …

Jeanna Matthews

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