The River Inn: Spring, I Think

   Crocuses and Snowdrops are beginning to bloom in the mulchy beds where last summer's flowers were, which means spring is not too far away. The appearance of the winter flowers seems to have tricked the sun into coming out a bit more than usual lately and I've used this time to steal a few of its sweet rays. I enjoy walking down to the nearby castle. Its quaint spires reflect on the green pond, casting a dancing image over the swans and coots that live on the bank. If you walk around to the other side, the castle courtyard opens into a lawn that's emerald even in winter. It is bordered on one end by a stone chapel and is home to an old grove of trees, which let the yellow sunshine through in liquid shafts. In summer, the banks of the pond are overgrown with ivy. Snails and frogs live under their shady leaves and birdhouses and suet attract nuthatches, Eurasian robins, and tits. 

   A low stone wall keeps the rising river waters from flooding the lawn, and if you scramble down it, you'll find yourself on a forested floodplain, where the moss grows thick on the trees and the grasses grow so tall you can't see the river. Birds have turned this little woodland into a home and pheasants and chickens root in the underbrush while the thrum of the woodpecker's beak echoes in the canopy. Here, in this dense thicket of growth, I've discovered a network of crisscrossing paths that lead to various locations, one branch takes you to the outlet of a spring, and the other leads to a sandy peninsula with a three-legged tree stump for a stool. From here, there is a view of the River Inn, with Germany just on the other side. An outlet has created a sandbar where swans, mallards, and curlews gather. 

   It is here, on this floodplain, that I've been finding peace lately. The castle behind me and the sight of Germany in the distance bears no resemblance to home, but something about the husky brown grass, the mulchy muddy paths, and web-like tree branches feels familiar. The grass and the mud smell the same as they have everywhere I've lived, and without leaves, the trees could be cottonwoods. The sound of mallards on the water and sparrows in the underbrush is a familiar melody. Being there makes me feel the same as I did when I was eight, jumping the creek and running off into the field across the road. I would disappear as soon as there was any hint of spring sunlight, off to create some delicious stew as I fell into a world of imagination. It feels the same as finishing school early and riding my bike down to the river in Lander. It feels the same as tracking the footprints of sleepy raccoons across the muddy banks of the Platte behind my house in Greeley. It feels the same as being knee-high in mud, trying to cross a snow-flooded Little Missouri River in North Dakota. 

Spring, I think, might feel the same everywhere. 

Pictures of the castle yard in September:







Pictures from this week:



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