What if you couldn’t smell spring?

Black Angus cows at sunset on a north Idaho ranch

Took this photo last night of these "ladies of the evening".

I can do without a lot of things. Juice. Good hair days. A reliable car. Those wheeled suitcases everybody rolls around with in the airport. But I don’t know if I could do without smelling spring.

It’s finally tapping on my window. It’s only March 9th. I shouldn’t be saying finally like it’s the third act in a bad rendition of Hansel & Gretel. But I am. I want spring, and last night I smelled it.

Spring is a mixture of smells. A little reminiscent of the earth after a rainstorm has rolled through mixed with cow pies and the faintest sprigs of green grass.

It feels a little like wrapping your arms around a load of laundry straight out of the dryer and a lot like waking up next to that person you can’t get enough of.

And then last night, as I watched the moon inch its way up over the mountain, I thought – What if you couldn’t smell spring?

What if you couldn’t listen to the creek sing its nightly lullabies? What if you couldn’t watch the baby calves learn to conquer their legs? What if you couldn’t walk down the middle of these dirt roads? What if you couldn’t sit on your porch and watch the stars?

What if you couldn’t smell spring?

I know towns and cities have their advantages. Like places to get juice and remedies for bad hair days, car dealerships and luggage stores.

But out here in the country, your next-door neighbors are cows. You get to wander down the road like you own it. You get to feel small under the stars.

And you get to smell spring.

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