There is a portion of a farmer's field visible from the main road through town, on a slight incline rising up away from street level to display a near-perfect barn at its peak. (The barn would be perfect if its side bore a message like See Rock City or Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco. Did I mention this is a rural community?) Every year about this time a faint green outline takes shape, the early shoots of foliage that will eventually burst forth in brilliant yellow daffodils. The plants in question are arranged in the shape of a hunormous cross. I understand that in the Christian mythos, the cross is symbolic of resurrection, so installing annuals in the shape of one is pleasingly appropriate. But still.
There is a delicious irony in the fact that my most reliable indicator of spring's return is the appearance of a Roman torture device in a nearby field.