WRITE THE WORLD REVIEW ARCHIVE

Herring fish gather in the shallow stream behind the lake and through the trees. It’s Sunday afternoon, and I am sitting on the thick slabs of concrete that seem so out of place this deep in the forest.

CLOSED, proclaims a sign in front of me, TO THE HARVEST OF RIVER HERRING. I want to reassure the creatures, somehow, that I am harmless. I needed to get out of the house.

As I push off out the driveway an hour before, I think of what the poets call false spring. Sunshine beams down and the air carries pollen that makes my nose itch. When I bike past the bay I can just smell the mud and salt of the clam beds. Little purple flowers peek out from a summer home’s flawless lawn. Still, next week the sky will return to grey and those stubborn violets will frost over as if January never left.

Now, I listen to the rush of the herring run and graze my hand along the ice-cold water. The river knows this isn’t quite her time. It will take until June for the lake to be flooded with kids in neon bathing suits and the beaches to overflow with parents counting down the days until back-to-school.

But it is March, and the lake only knows the fish and frogs and me. And, I think with a breeze brushing my winter-pale skin, what a wondrous thing it is.