There are geese on the wing who honk away only to complain about the cold/wet weather or to argue about directions and breakfast. Far from romantic song. There are also those long-awaited robins, who sing their almost monotonous “We’re up. So what?”

Singing it over and over, we hear them now that they’re new again, but by May their song will be better blocked out so that they don’t wake us with their repetition ad nauseam. Among other things of note, it is: tax season, Lent, the equinox, Mardi Gras and springing ahead to daylight saving time. Not only is baseball back, but mud season is also back. March came to Maine like the proverbial lion, but thanklessly it roared out like one too, with an April Fool nor’easter or two just for fun.

I easily will admit I’ve been longing for an end to winter, so I’ve looked upon all these fresh signs of change with pure joy. There’s nothing pretty about mud season. It is damp, windy, gray, rainy; the snow piles are ugly, dirty reminders of the cold, and the aforementioned bird songs are nothing like tuneful. There are still few chances for wearing shorts, and it would be wise if we remember to bring gloves.

The thing that’s remarkable about mud season is that it is what I would call a “thin time.” A time so fraught with change and so brief, we thrill to know that the snow is shrinking and on the run. Our old friends are returning, and unlike in winter, unlike in summer, we shouldn’t complain. We feel it would be thankless to complain; I mean, only the most fanatic of skiers would have winter continue. Enough with the snow already. Summer is exquisite, fall is best of all. Tulips and daffodils sing of spring. But mud season is so brief, so mixed, we don’t have time to either compliment it or to complain about it.

So we’ve returned to a time that reminds us to pay attention. Everything seems new. We don’t really mind hearing the geese or the robins. They’re new again. “Everything old is new again.” Stepping into a muddy path, forgetting to wear a hat, those ever-loving puddles to jump. It is a time of pure transition, and so we feel lucky to notice everything about it each year.

Mud season doesn’t deserve the complaints it often receives. It is here for such a short time. We’ll forget it when it’s gone and smile when it returns in all its harsh, ugly mix of contrast and transition next year. All of this doesn’t mean we have to enjoy getting up an hour earlier or paying our taxes, but we are oh so lucky to discover a season of pure change.

Pure déjà vu. Mud season, redux. Just a little praise. How could I forget?

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