Nothing heralds in spring quite like lambing season. Small, wet bundles are dropped in the straw and are carefully cleaned by anxious ewes. Within minutes, the new packages are transformed into woolly, wobbly lambs, hungry for their mother's milk. If you want to hold them, you have one week. Then the lambs turn into springy, bouncy babies who bound away when you come near.
With the coming of the lambs, spring usually follow. But not this year. Winter still clutches the land in its icy claws. Instead of emerald grass blanketing the fields, it struggles to poke through the cold, muddy ground. Most days, thick, slate gray clouds plaster the sky. The flowering trees still cover their buds, refusing to show their colorful glory.
But the baby lambs do not mind. The world is still a wondrous place filled with eating and racing their siblings in a baby flock, their mothers oblivious to their antics. And just maybe, one day spring will bound along with them.