Friday was one of those intoxicating Vermont spring days where you think there must be some mistake in the landscape: nature’s greens can’t possibly be that, well, green. But there they are. More than once in recent days I have wanted to press pause and hang on to the neons betraying new foliage for just a little longer. And the vistas in the southwestern corner of the state where I live and work sometimes take away my breath, catching in my throat. But time waits for no one. My own taproot is taking hold, I can feel it. Friday afternoon I had the great pleasure of a nice romp in a huge field with my friend and her beautiful English setter, a variety known as a Llewellin: she is a dappled girl with a winsome smile and a shameless penchant for mud. She is also a love sponge, as she demonstrated after our walk. I have only a small handful of images to show for the romp, notably the view from a couple of spots (there were so many), and the plaque affixed to a historic bridge that was remarkably rescued from a dump and reassembled on this beautiful piece of land as a footbridge. A tiny souvenir of the afternoon, a gift from my friend, sits in a crystal bud vase in my kitchen windowsill. This is the prize after a big, bad winter. How reassuring to know so many things continue to take root against all odds.