In the spring I often find myself thinking about water. Where has the water that’s cascading down the mountain been? Is it true that it’s been cycling between Earth and clouds forever? Raining from the sky, or falling as snow, melting, absorbed by the earth, evaporating, rising and then falling again? I think I read that somewhere. Do you know anything about that? Mail me a letter if you do.

For now, we’ll pretend that’s true. That’s how I like to imagine it, anyway.

During the snowmelt and spring rain the streams are roaring. When I come within five feet of them they’re all that I hear. Moving water drowning out everything. This time of year the dogs are just starting to dip their toes in. Except the labs, of course, they’re all in. And me, I’m just starting to dip in, too. Squatting down on a slippery rock and lowering my hands into ice-cold water, feeling it rush by, thinking about where it’s been. To splash that water onto my face is to be reborn.

In the rain my world is literally tunneled. Hood up, peripheral vision blocked, I only see forward. It falls, pattering on my head and shoulders. Running off of my jacket and down my legs and then splashing back onto the water-logged earth. Even more water is running off the brim of my hood, forming a waterfall in front of my face. It’s safe here. The water tapping on my jacket is calming, like rain on a tin roof. It’s letting me know that it’s there, but I’m a walking blanket fort in a rainstorm. The perfect place to be.

And with spring rain comes spring fog. Devouring the last of the snow. The final few patches holding tight to the ground as the fog rolls over. And Finn getting those last few snowy back rubs in.

Today someone must be out there pumping this fog in. It’s too perfect. It’s too thick. It’s as thick as pea soup. Someone said that once. I believe it was Walt Whitman.* Thanks for the assist, Walty. Really pulled the whole thing together.

Boo looks blurry from here. And just beyond him everything disappears. The trees are gone. Swallowed by the fog. Branches seemingly begging to escape whatever lies beyond. Or, maybe they’re encouraging us to move forward. Their crooked arms jutting in every direction. Appearing through the fog and then disappearing. I wish I could help you. I really do. All we do is cut you down, over and over and over. All we do is dump our garbage on you. All we do is forever change the world around you. And now, here you are, so close to me, screaming for help. And I do nothing.

Too much? Maybe we need another good Walt Whitman quote to bring us all back. Just say your favorite to yourself.

It’s amazing to see the world disappear in a wall of fog as the rain falls. It often feels like the closest I’ll ever get to walking through a dream. I say blanket-fort up, my friends, and get out there.

*All Walt Whitman quotes are my own.