It’s morning and winter’s gray stiffness pins me to the dirt.
Somewhere, in a narrow crawl space of my mind, there is the inkling of hazy disappointment. It’s the first day of spring and I’m cold. Not chilly. Not in need of a light jacket to get me through the short frostiness of daybreak. I’m freaking cold.
I scrap ice from my rear windshield.
It’s almost noon.
The world is flat. Grass is hard and rumpled. The corpse of a shrub, once the vibrant centerpiece of a blooming garden, clings to a desert floor like lost hope. But there is change in the wind. The air has opened and the sky has grown larger. For so long the clouds hung in a frozen droop, like a ceiling of filthy pigeon feathers. Now there is only brightness above. A breeze nips at my arms and face, but there is a blue, electric energy coursing through the neighborhood.
Evening is near.
Canopies are empty but now they’re awake, and the branches seem to stretch and sway, pawing at moisture in the air. It’s the promise of a holiday. Suddenly life is busy with plans and wishes. The air is bustling. Birds watch and wait in expectation of some long awaited celebration. A turquoise shimmer is running through the breeze. Good times are on the horizon.
The real spring has almost come.
