Snow, sunset, and spring...

Somewhere in the countryside, perched on the cold top rung of an old green fence, was a young girl who loved to study the sunset. On a day like this, when the air was tingling with snow-charm and the wind blew crisp breaths of sunset air around her hair, she felt particularly inclined to sit there for a while and simply let the subtle colours and misted hills soak into her spirit and calm her.
"March 1st," she wrote in her notebook "on my old Gate of Dreams at the bottom of Sunset Hill". She smiled sheepishly as she read the fancy titles she had given these two things, but then, she knew that the rest of her writing would be ridiculously full of adjectives (especially colours) and descriptive sentences as well, so the names didn't really matter. "The melting snow has almost vanished now;" she continued to scribble on with her stubby pencil, "there is just a scattering of that coldly glinting white now. But those few cups of crystalline winter that are left now are incredible!They are clusters of frozen diamonds, clinging to one another and melting even as they reflect the silver-blue of the evening sky." Here she paused, deciding whether or not to form a new paragraph. She did it.
"Up there, where the north-flying geese create traceries of momentary grace, are the stories whispered by the snow. Each cloud, having released its burden of dry, feathered rain, has drifted off to the golden-rose horizon, and the half moon, not wanting to repeat the snow-starred earth, is coloured a honey-sweet cream..."
She looked up at the sky, knowing that it was an almost hopeless endeavour, attempting to capture that timeless shade of deep coolness in words, but if she couldn't do it then at least she could look. So for the next few minutes she just stared up, gazing at the disappearing light, the climbing moon, and those dark grey clouds  looming closer as they blew swiftly across the sky. They were very big, ominous clouds, and just as she was about to get up and start the walk home, the first cold, heavy drop splashed down across her cheek. The rain followed her all the way to her doorstep, but somehow it couldn't get inside, so it stayed out above the hill, pattering down against the yellowed grass of last summer.
The girl sighed as she heard the dancing of those wet drops against the windowpanes, remembering that it wasn't quite spring yet. Later that evening, as she warmed herself before the fire, she wrote once more in her journal: "I'm learning that the turning of the calendar page to March doesn't necessarily mean spring has arrived, but that it is a symbol of that season's coming in a while. There were geese flying north today (I wrote about them during my walk a few hours ago) and as I walked home the crocuses looked so fresh and green and alive as they poked up through the cold snow in the garden, but no, it isn't spring yet. That's all right though, I can live huddled next to the stove for another few weeks while I wait!"