I sometimes see the signs of Spring: the pollenated ground; a lonely green leaf on a tree; flapping wings of birds building nests; tadpoles congregating in illusions across a pond. Winding downhill in a maturing canopy of foliage, I downshifted to cut the personal effort, passing the burden down the line and straight to the transmission. Far south in the Luxembourg Province of Wallonia, just north of the French border, forest yields to field. Brown sheep sporting dreadlocks chomped the young, short grass situated within ancient and sturdy polished stone walls. Ochre colored sandstone, the “pierre de France,” rose from the grass in walls, belfries, and arched sally ports. Vines climbed in symmetry on the walls of an old guesthouse. In the background flashes of red maple buds added to the palette as the Spring day fought vestiges of Winter. A trout, lips pursed upon a golden ring, embossed the keystone of the entryway arch leading to Orval Monastery.
