There, listen quiet, to the moment before the hop. Knees bent, sinews gathering: the tendons are rigid and the blood posts close to the skin. Yes, there is snow on the foothills, a promise that we have not yet fled from our winter chassis. Yet. If you strain it is there: a preparation, an intake of breath, a momentary tautening before the coil kicks off. Shush. Try harder. Are you there? Are you close?
There is this: we are waiting to be sprung, to catapult our sitting room weary bodies into a sun speckled year. No more fearful indoor lurking. No sofa duvets. No naps. We are frogs who have been waiting, legs crooked, for months; we are frogs who never wanted for a kiss but will see our princesses and ping skyward. The princesses will gasp but shut up! This is not about pursed lips or brocade or golden balls rolling toward the well. This is about the sinews and the moment when our amphibian brains start to think about flight.
Snowdrops and daffodils are erupting from the soil; the sun is clawing to a point higher in the sky; and all around, wherever you look, the bears are waking up. The hummingbirds have shed their torpor. And our knees are about to straighten, our poor froglike knees giddy for the hop. We aren’t frozen; this isn’t stasis. Everything is about to happen…now.