La Primavera

Spring is a fine word. It’s really just right. The sense that everything is being – at one rate of speed or another – propelled by a force kicking or knocking or tickling it forward, or upward, or sideways, is in the air, in the ground, in the spatter of cool little droplets that can hit you saucily in the face on a changeable April day like today. The sky can’t make up its mind, the light dithers, the bare branches with their little swellings bend and tangle overhead.  The small birds fling about like bullets, and the bigger ones, the crows and hawks, move with purpose, strength and distractedness combined.

They have much to do. I have to do my taxes. Not quite in the same league.

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