There was another springlike day of small, fluffy clouds gleaming white against pale blue sky. My windows being open, the cat enjoyed lots of sill time. Outside, a few bees visited early blossoms and the mild, buzzing air was fragrant. As evening neared I saw smoke rise from a nearby chimney. Somebody didn't get the news that winter has fled, harassed by pollinating insects, pursued by those flocks of geese I heard flying north just after sunset, sung guttural goodbyes by frogs reveling among green stalks in their starlit bogs. The early night's coolness justifies no more than a sweater, as far as I can feel. Maybe the fire starters love the winter and, reluctant to let it go, burn wood as an evocation, the way I burn words for what I love. But what I love approaches inexorably, and my litter of words will be barely noticeable in a world dazzled by the blossoms spring soon will strew in its own path. In the end, I suppose, everything I say will leave no more substance to the world than will that smoke which now, a brief sharpness scenting the slight breeze, dissipates into the gathered night.