Spring

It’s in Spring when the ground thaws and smells sweet with the rot of Fall’s decay, when Winter’s snow’s grime fades, when grass emerges slowly green through rusted preserve, when daffodils and crocus and hyacinth bloom early with promise, when clouds laze across the sky, when cold rain soaks flushed worms squirming onto sidewalks, when male sparrows spar in the early morning for nesting space to entice their hoped-for mates, when squirrels roam in search of their store of seeds and nuts, when rabbits and chip monks browse the as-yet-planted garden to stake out their places at the green buffet, when cats sit on porches and try to recall what they’re supposed to do, when dogs have more to bark at than they have for months, when the sun fools the 50-degree temperature into feeling like 70, when sweatpants and sweatshirts give way to shorts and tee-shirts for the morning walk, when the doors and windows are freed open and the breeze billows the curtains in the bathroom, when gin and tonic replaces rum and coke, when Sauvignon Blanc replaces Zinfandel, when Harley engines growl the morning awake, when the warmth of hope and all-things-possible takes over from the chill of will-this-ever-end, when illusion thankfully replaces reality.