Anyway, deadly risks posed by tiny varmints notwithstanding, spring is being pleasant. In fact, the weather for the last few days has been as near perfect as it gets around here. Even the afternoon breezes have been favored me, blowing from the northeast instead of the southwest. That sends the little puffs of pollen dislodged from the mulberry blossoms toward the street instead of my window, thus relieving me of any number of unpleasant, wet sneezes.
Watching the afternoons with their thin, bright clouds and sky that seems endlessly deep gives me brief moments of regression to that childhood state when, as I recall, the passage of time had nothing to do with loss, and even the undeniable presence of age in the world was of mostly aesthetic import. Of course, it's possible that I only imagine childhood having been like that. Or maybe there are psychoactive properties in the aromatic essences released by bruised grass, and it is that which has evoked a real feeling I used to experience when lying on the lawn, looking up at the stately passage of celestial afternoon, or at the darkening evening sky and its new-fallen, ancient starlight.