As predicted, the rain turned to snow, and by morning Boulder had perhaps five inches of it: five extremely heavy, wet inches. As I drove Gregory to school, and then as I walked to the Skip stop to head off to work, I saw tree after tree with broken branches. Already laden with their abundant spring blossoms, they were unable to bear the additional crushing load of snow, and so their once-majestic branches snapped and now hung low, dragging on the snowy ground. I tried to liberate as many branches as I could, shaking each one gently for the joy of watching it spring back up again. But the extent of the devastation was beyond any one individual's ability to affect in any significant way. As always happens with such heavy spring snows, and we do get them every single year, it started to seem impossible that any flowering trees can grow here in Colorado.
But you know what? They do. Next spring, the lost limbs from this spring's snow will be cleared away, and the trees will be back in bloom, as beautiful as ever, decked out in radiant pink and white. Their beauty will be staggering, unmarred. It will take my breath away.
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