spring's prelude

The very beginning of spring can be detected only in moments. A shift of light deepens the blue of the sky and enhances the shades of yellow, pink and red along the roadside. The stretch of wispy clouds suddenly seems less winter-spindly and more breezy and young. A certain sound trips along the street that feels like sandles along cobblestones and laughter by a fountain, the taste of ice cream when standing barefoot in the grass.

A schoolbus floats up over a hill, the yellow buttercup-deep, windows airily reflecting tree-branches that just seem more green than grey now. When the bus stops, a child gets off and is met by his mother. She straightens the slipping-off strap of his backpack and he walks up the driveway. Not a skipping or running boy - but the thought of the color of buttercups makes the step of children seem lighter.

It is 3:06 PM, but a different sort of 3:06 PM. It is sunnier than it was last week. The sideroads are more luminous and clear than they were last week, the atmosphere more full of song-hint; the trees along the way lead to some skyfilled point in the distance.

At the turn of a corner, the clouds change. The sky ahead is billowing-grey, and the pond-water is tin-colored and dull. Red stoplights sway.