Spring comes late to the headwaters. The foothills blush green beneath a new sun and flowers bloom in the city parks but winter still holds the high country in it's cold embrace. by the end of April, there is evidence it's affections may be waning--a slight depression in the snow where the stream runs, a softness in the evening air. There is open water at the road cut and hints of a current where none has been for months and I hear music as I snow-shoe near the ice falls. An echo rises sweetly from fro chambers deep below. On the flat rock in the Crossing, a whisper forms. It ripples through the sunlight and dances away downstream, moving swiftly towards spring.