I took the scenic route on my way home from the bank yesterday, meaning that I strolled through town, turning a quick errand into almost an hour. As I walked, I took pictures of the blossoms I saw along the way, signs of spring here far too early.

This is in sharp contrast to the bitterly cold weather we had intermittently in December and January, and the two large snowfalls that had me going to work by bus rather than bike for days at a time.

I’m glad we took the opportunity to go winter hiking when there was snow on the ground and frost in the air.

I hope the little blossoms know more than I do, and I hope there are strong memories in their roots and soil, in their home. Will they be okay if winter comes again? As I breathed in deeply, a woman passing by assured me that the tree has always been a winter bloomer.

The weather was temperate when we went skiing last week, and then too warm, and now it’s cold again there. The seasons are certainly no longer as predictable as they were, but they were never all that predictable, at least where I grew up.

Yet, it’s different now. The air feels different. And we are far beyond the point of pretending not to notice.