Today, the thought of spring is closer at hand than it has been in the previous weeks. When Monty and I went out to take our walk, the air was crisp and clean, the sounds of birds were every where and the snow was starting to melt and loosen from it's piles.
It's the kind of day that a jacket will suffice -- no mitts or toque required. It's the kind of day I've been waiting for. The wind is still brisk, but this is Saskatchewan, to expect less is to be fooling oneself. But the sun is shining brightly and a smile is on my face.
Today is the kind of day where the neighbourhood men will head outside as soon as their work day is done. Each one of them will be holding a stick of some sort -- a cut down hockey stick, a metal pole, an ice chipper -- and they will begin the springtime tradition of breaking ice.
This tradition comes ingrained in the men of the lands of ice and snow. They are compelled, at the moment spring arrives, to venture outdoors and help mother nature along. They create tunnels and rivers for the melting snow to pass through. They create pathways in order to better direct the water to the drains. They chip and bash at snow, empowered by their creative destruction, and feel pride in the resulting rush of water.
Like children, they stomp and smash with abandon, they forget all other troubles, and just glory in the outdoors and the promises this melting brings.