Yesterday I found the first crocus of the year, in our yard. The sun was shining then on it's golden petals, polishing them to a sparkle. This morning the sky is overcast, so the little flower is holding it's promise closed, but it is still there, waiting for the sun to warm them again. Yesterday, after savoring crocus yellow, I searched for more signs of spring. It was very quiet outside, no wind, no tractors in the field, no cars on the road, no tweetering finches. Everything was so very still, so I could hear the first sounds of spring. Last fall our elegant maple trees let down their leaves to insulate the flower beds against the winter cold. Most of the leaves blew away in the stiff December winds, to compost in some distant field. But some remained to shelter the daffodils and narcissus bulbs until February began to warm. I stood there listening, my ears drawn to faint trembling, the sound of bulbs pushing green leaves pushing promise up through last summer's re