On the lake, shimmering, silver water. Still bare, brown trees interspersed with feathery hemlock.
A slight hint of red in the trees means the maples will soon be in leaf. After last night's rain the stream is chattering. And the grey grass has suddenly turned green.
A faint scent of pine in the air, deer hoofprints in the mud, the roadside periwinkle in bloom and a mourning dove sits in a tree.
But in the fog this morning, the usual Western New York thing of people driving without lights. Especially if they've got a grey car. You take your life in your hands.