One of those Aprils, this is, with snow enough for you to ski in the
Green Mountains, or the White ones, while a friend in the valley below fishes
for trout. The forsythia burst like so much yellow popcorn. The
daffodils rise suddenly and bloom. The maples, tapped out, begin to bud.
Here and there, the odd Christmas wreath still hangs from a chimney or a
front door that no one uses anymore.
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