You can’t hold a conversation with ice, or the horizon or the open pools of water that constantly shift and freeze underfoot depending on how dark the night is depending on how long the winter lasts. You can’t trick the sun into staying in the same room as you are, no matter how much you need the light no matter how much you need to feel its brief warmth on your skin.
However, there can be mostly unrequited conversations with the hordes of grasshoppers and mosquitoes that come with the unfolding of wildflowers, the clumps of blue grass
that fills in the brown patches left by winter. In these moments, you, who have been here the whole time have become the intruder, inciting suspicious rasps from passing seagulls
the off-kilter dinging of a buoy lost at sea the stomp of caribou determined to claim Spring for themselves.