Photo Source: Martin Vorel via Libreshot Part I: The Quiet Season That year the thaw was slow to arrive. Snow hung around in the spots where the ground was low, like a forgotten thought, and the river, that had been hard frozen, now began to say--low in the mouth, doubtful, as though one were learning a lullaby once more. The moss is moving under the canopy of bare-limbed birches. All winter it had waited there, huddled tight against the rock and the root, and now it was moving, green and...