Who could love mud as much as Minnesotans?
Freya is snoozing on the bed. It’s raining sheets, but the snow on vast stretches of fields has been reduced to less than a foot. The promise of spring is thick, heavy mud, black as my dad’s plowed fields in Iowa.
The mud is heavy on my cast-boot, too, heavier because I wear Tom’s two-buckle overshoe rubber so I can go out in the wet at all.
But spring is coming.
As soon as Freya wakes up, she’ll forget that it’s raining and go out again…sleep, wake, repeat. Maybe I’ll take her swimming…
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