Early spring at the Reservation feels the most tortured, the most ambivalent. Some trees are early and shooting. Screaming to be seen. Others are holding out and holding over, a bare framework, crippled and broken and bored.

On the road, it is quiet like winter still. No hum of bugs. No chatter and sweep of birds and restless things.

And the sun is strong and hot, even though the airs still cools our faces.

We walk through, and we don’t equivocate or pussyfoot. We are determined and we are fucking ready.