When I look out my window, I see lifeless trees—apple, peach, maple, cottonwood—and vines. They look scraggly and bare. From a distance, it’s easy to think they are still deep in winter hibernation. But they aren’t. If I look closely—really focus my eyes—I see little bumps on the branches of the apple tree. They are places where leaves and blooms are preparing to burst forth. I see those white-rimmed little bumps and think of a pressure confetti cannon. Soon those bumps will explode with a bower of little white blossoms that will eventually drop their petals on the grass below and cover it like snow. That grass used to be short and faded, but it’s greening again, starting to look soft and fluffy, growing tall enough to begin hiding the leaves that remain from the long winter.

The shrubs at the back property line are starting to unveil their green leaf buds, too. Little dots of bright green are sprinkled through the fence of twigs and trunks and branches. Right now I can still see through it all to the actual fence that lines the back of the shopping center I live behind, but soon I won’t be able to see any of that, only thick green shrubs and trees in bloom and vines weaving it all together and filling in the corners and crevices with their leaves.

When I look out my window, I see what is. But I also see what is coming because I remember what has been and that it will be again.

When I look out my window, I see tomorrow.