Springtime number seven

Nothing blooms under water on the beach. The rocks look exactly the same as they did a month ago, if there wasn’t any snow or ice around. There aren’t any song birds, frogs or tourists to create the sense of new season. And yet it is spring. It smells like spring. The sun is spring. The hue of the seaweed says spring. Something I can’t name is there and it’s spring. Finally. My seventh spring in Maine.

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