The air had been heavy all afternoon, the sky painted in deep hues of gray. I could feel the weight of an impending storm, though the earth beneath my feet was still dry. Then, as I climbed a sloping hill, it came—a distant, rolling growl across the heavens.

The first thunder of spring.

An old man stood at the hilltop, leaning on a wooden staff. He turned toward me with a knowing nod. “Spring wakes with a roar,” he said, eyes scanning the horizon.

I stopped beside him, watching the sky shift, the wind carrying the storm’s scent. “It’s different from winter’s silence,” I said.

He smiled. “Because winter teaches us to endure. But spring? Spring teaches us to move.”

As the wind picked up and the first raindrops kissed my skin, I felt it—something stirring deep within, answering the call of change.

As I walked along a winding hillside path, the scent of wet earth rose to greet me. The snow had melted into the soil, leaving behind a rich, loamy aroma that seemed to pulse with life.

I met a farmer repairing a wooden fence, his hands calloused but steady. He noticed my pause and nodded toward the ground. “You smell it, don’t you?”

“The earth?” I asked.

He grinned. “It’s waking up. That smell means the roots are stirring, the seeds are readying themselves. Soon enough, this whole hillside will be alive with green.”

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the earth’s quiet awakening in the air around me.

Walking through the park, I paused as a sound broke through the stillness—a trill, high and clear. I scanned the bare trees until I spotted it: a robin, its red breast vivid against the gray branches.

An elderly man seated on a bench nearby chuckled at my surprise. “First one of the season, eh?” he said.

I nodded. “I didn’t think they’d be back so soon.”

“They know before we do,” he replied. “The earth whispers it to them – the days grow longer, the warmth creeps in, and they return to remind us that nothing is truly lost. The song of spring begins here.”

I lingered, listening to the robin’s call, the sound lifting my spirits with its quiet hope.

An artist sat under a bare winter tree, sketching a snake coiled around its roots. His lines were fluid, alive, as though the creature might slither off the page.

“What draws you to the Snake?” I asked.

“It’s the shedding of the skin,” he said without looking up. “Each year, we grow, change, outgrow parts of ourselves. The Snake reminds us to let go of what no longer serves us—fears, grudges, doubts—so we can move forward lighter, freer.”

His words felt like an invitation to reflect on what I might leave behind in 2025.