Spring, when the world, as I understand it, is puddlewonderful, and, to the best of my knowledge, the little lame balloon man whistles far and wee. It always puts me in mind of my springs spent in New Richmond, Wisconsin, my family and I scraping the mud off our shoes, hats, backs and from between our toes. Getting the layers of caked-on mud off the cows, tractors and fetal pigs.
Farmers love spring, because it means more work.
Time spent alone and sullen, when the whack of your scoop shovel against the hindquarters of a Guernsey is all the therapy you need. Whey and silage mix with the odors of offal and large, mean stock animals. Even your own smell comes into its own. Blossoms, if you will. Spring means food, as well.