For months, I had been studying the historic lay of the land by looking at the trees. I could spot, thanks to Dad’s training, old homesteads by the presence of towering oaks, and I could tell where fence lines used to run by watching for the spires of cedar stretching across the fields. Sycamores told me where water was and where it had been in the recent past, and dogwoods signaled the edges of forests and farmyards that had once been. These signs had been easiest to spot in winter.
Now, though, I was torturing Sawyer on every card ride by pointing out the daffodil stems and iris fronds that were poking up along the side of the road. Clumps of the bright green bulbs hung to the root balls of trees, and alongside of the lane to our own farmhouse, I’d just spotted daffodils and crocus comi
