Spring, a Passage -- by Alex Ranieri

It was one of those nights when the moon, just full, opposes the declining sun—and one could fancy, the moon was gazing into some glass, by which she could glimpse her shining soul. Snow slipped from the roofs—water dripped, slow, and unceasing—and though no articulate difference had occurred, nevertheless, winter was at an end. I felt this, and could not say which was the herald; whether the light, infused with a new and subtle warmth; whether the wind, no longer brittle, thin and sharp, but blustering, and swaggering with unfounded hope; or whether the chatter of the birds, their melodies made longer and more imploring by the approaching season of love, convinced my senses that winter could maintain his hold no longer. But surely, within myself I felt this same slow and unceasing breakdown of the ice, of apathy, of listlessness, of isolation. As I walked alongside the lake, so lately freed from scabs of congealed snow, so reminiscent, now, of some Mediterranean bay, I rejoiced, wonderingly rejoiced, at this resurrection—in myself, this little mirror, reflecting in part a divine rebirth.