When the Eastern Sierra wakes from winter, it’s a collective breath being drawn. Oh how I wish I could watch you bloom, bitterbrush, but just all of a sudden there you are, blushing all yellow after months of looking at me with brittle dark green leaves. And when did you return, Mountain Chickadee, calling “cheeeese-burger” outside my window as though you’d been at it since time immemorial?

You all forget how lonely I was without you. How I pleaded, “I’m sorry. Please come home to me” as the snow fell and the icicles encroached. For how strong the primordial longing for the green leaves to grow again on the trees, to squeak joyfully, I am alive! And this winter did not take me, oh no, I have cheated death’s grasp once more.