But spring is a cruel mistress. The melting snow makes puddles that are so huge a lake forms on the sidewalk. On your approach, there is no telling how deep it is. I sing the lyrics to The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and start taking long strides ready to leap over them. When you make it, you howl inside in triumph. When you miss, you splash muddy water all over your leg and feel the wetness sink into your toes.
The air feels so fresh, except for the scent of months of dog poop that fill the air. The feces have been gathering for months inside the snow banks, which are now melting and releasing the fumes in the air
Piles of snow banks soak up the muck of the street and turn a sludgey black.