Through this window I look out today at a February landscape that includes a pine tree and a low-slung shed, a wintry mix if ever there was one. The pine tree's branches, though not boughed down with snow nevertheless droop like the eyelids of a Basset hound, and so does the shed. Its roof tiles are tattered and covered with moss. But this moss is absurdly violently acidic '90s-Seattle green.
It's like Mountain Dew green that my sister and I used to slurp and see who could burp the alphabet. It's graphic. It's rude boy. And so freaking appealing. A punk rocker next to the sad donkey of the pine tree, and tremendous caving introspection of the shed.
I read that looking at the color green makes us creative and happy. Something about our origins and acacia trees so I have plans for a window box in the spring when the earth is not hard as iron, but right now what keeps me it's this moss like a Lephrechaun. Proving that it is the little things.