Tonight I noticed that there was still a bit of light lingering in the west after six o'clock. This is that day in February when I realize that spring will come again. I never plan to make that realization; it just happens. One evening I notice the lingering light, and the thought of buds on the plants and the scent of spurge laurel drifting on the air pops into my mind. And the last of last year's leaves are still lying brown and dry under the bushes.