There must be a sutra that fits this mess: lumps of melting snow â€”markers of impermanence. Once the unspoiled beauty of fields of cotton, ski slope, starlit skyâ€”now shoveled and ploughed, siphoned inward by sun and gravity. Old snow with all the elegance of gun-metal helicopter blades churning overhead. Soot-smudge tattoos on berms of it, foot-stomped reminders of imperfection, dirty laundry.
Only listen for hymn-licks in the slap of slush from tires, birdsong layered in like a gospel round. Then join in, scanning twigs of gray-barked trees for bud spritsâ€” that first portent of spring.