I was out tramping through the mud along the Mississippi River this morning. I climbed down to the soaking base of Shadow Falls. And there, among the fascinating dribbles of mud, the drooling waterfalls, and the thick carpets of lurid green and yellow algae and mosses, was ice.
If you look down at the bottom right corner you will see that the date is April 20. But Winter simply refuses to let go here. Oh, Winter is losing the battle this far into Spring. It tries to snow and half the time it turns to rain. It attempts to be bitter cold, but it can only manage to get into the thirties. And what ice it can produce has to be snuck into the cavernous shadows of riverside cliffs. But it will not give up the hunt. It is remorseless. And as its last moments of hanging on, by torn and bleeding fingernails, slip away, we are, I must admit, inspired by its bloody-minded ferocity.
But also, we are not the least bit sad to see it go.
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