Warm rain fell all day, washing away vast amounts of snow. From my studio window, I look out on what I call pinto snow, where patches of ground blanketed with rust-brown oak leaves appear, reminding me of the markings on pinto horses.
I welcome the warmth, even though its stay will be brief. Tonight the rain will turn to snow, and the patches will vanish like pinto ponies galloping over the hill. But I will remember the way they came, with warmth and hope and rain.