The tip of a fir branch claws its way out of a snowbank. After many long weeks of confinement, a hand reaching for lightness and release.

My Front Yard
​Photo by Tracy Kugler

Leaves and twigs appearing beneath retreating snow tell the story of a difficult winter in a lost language of arboreal runes.

Horton Park
​Photo by Tracy Kugler

Horton Park

My backyard

My driveway

When I bought plane tickets to return from a conference in New Orleans on April 14, I didn't think I'd have to worry about a blizzard interrupting my travel plans. But instead of flying home that evening, I found myself in a burger joint on Carondolet Street, watching the near-whiteout conditions that had closed the Minneapolis airport on TV.
When I did make it home the next day, it was to find a foot and a half of snow on my driveway. Thankfully, my dad volunteered to bring over his snowblower. He was even kind enough to run the first few (most difficult) passes while I was getting the girls to bed. When I went back out to tackle the rest of the mess, I had a heck of a time getting it started. (I have never gotten the hang of starting lawn mowers either.) With my husband pushing and me pulling the starter, we eventually got it going.
As this seemingly never-ending winter wears on, it's getting harder and harder to see beauty in the ubiquitous snow. But, boy, that little green snowblower was a thing of beauty that night.

Horton Park

Hamline Ave.

Horton Park

Seminary Ave.

Horton Park