Spring

Spring is trying but not hard enough. In Geneva it is still duvet-coat cold, but there is a hint of a smell that only happens in spring of the ice letting go of the dirt, probably what e.e. cummings was thinking of when he used the word mudlious. When I left the house much too early to catch a train to Zürich, the last hoots of the owl were drowned out by a chorus of birds, which have been silent through March.

Munchkin the cat must notice a rise in the temperature because when she asks to go out, she changes her mind less often when testing the wind with her nose and also stays out longer. There is a temperature that when she does go out she is almost immediately meowing at the door or window. She seems to know which room we are all in and has a large amplifier in her system that lets her voice penetrate barriers.

Where I stayed in Schwyz spring seemed even further away with snow still piled up and cross country skiers sliding through the fields, but I was staying at 500 meters in a little town called Schenderleggi. It seemed like the start of a DuMaurier novel. I want to go back to Schenderleggi… with the name rolling around my tongue.