It had been a brutal day, a hard edged wind coming from the north and cutting through the many layers she wore. Even when the sun broke through the heavy clouds it was cold, cold for late April. But here in the mountains of New Mexico weather was like that. Nothing unusual at all.
For a brief moment at sunset a rosy golden light limned the mesa top, gone as quickly as it had come. She smelled rain, but there was nothing yet to moisten the dust and the struggling grass that was already turning gray with thirst. It would come, though, she knew it. If she could smell it, it would come.
She built a fire in the wood stove, smiling at the fancy she’d had that she was done building fires till next fall. She settled into the evening, waiting.
The wind stopped. The world held its breath. Silently fluffy white flakes drifted down into the dusk, covering the branches of the apple trees that were only this morning braving the first bright green leaves of spring.