But at 7:41 PM PDT the cerulean sky sports a bright sliver grin of moon. I've only just closed my windows, as afternoon's warmth leaves the air. It already smells of spring tonight. The poppies are about to emerge and, baring any return of harsh weather, another week will doubtless find the landscape splattered with color as they and many other plants blossom. I expect puffs of pine pollen to begin drifting about any day now. And then there'll be the mosquitoes. The frogs I hear croaking await them. Yet someone has a fire going tonight, and the sour smell of woodsmoke stains the scent of spring. That won't happen many more nights, I think.
And When the Green Man Comes
by John Haines
The man is clothed in birchbark, small birds cling to his limbs and one builds a net in his ear. The clamor of bedlam infests his hair, a wind blowing in his head shakes down a thought that turns to moss and lichen at his feet. His eyes are blind with April, his breath distilled of butterflies and bees, and in his beard the maggot sings. He comes again with litter of chips and empty cans, his shoes full of mud and dung; an army of shedding dogs attends him, the valley shudders where he stands, redolent of roses, exalted in the streaming rain.