The sun is shining. Winter’s amnesia warms the river rock and coaxes birds into the field to pick at last year’s husks. It is hard to think of all that landscape dead, veins rooted in the merciless stony soil. Easier to believe it sleeps with us in the wintering watch. The trees with their long wooden memories stretch out the first green shoots of a season all but forgotten in icy footsteps. Cracked fingers, with their short fleshy memories, will smooth over. Mountain barberry thorns will slit the same creases, reminders of the season to come.