It's one of those gray days. The kind where the chill of the wind whistles across screens and the leaves blow upwards. You can faintly smell the last tendrils of winter clinging to the air, knowing that the life of spring is about to hatch all around. Old man winter puts up one more fight, covering the sky with a lifeless sheet, blanketing us from the sun. Looking out across the hills, I see a light in the distance on a hilltop, not sure what it is, just past the steeple across town.
It's days like this—days where the world looks completely dead, but on the verge of rebirth—that I begin to feel alive again.