A mild northern breeze brushes the pines and rustles the new leaves which the oaks have sprouted. The night whispers of spring. Faint forms of alligator clouds obscure a few of the stars which relieve the moonless dark of the sky. Even this near dawn, I feel the residue of yesterday's heat rise from the pavement. There is a vague scent of cut grass lingering as well, moderating the dryness which has lately entered the air. I go outdoors without a jacket, and do not shiver, but feel only the slight frission that the change of seasons induces. A familiar newness is arriving, adding another layer to my sense of the world, as last years's moldering leaves are adding another layer to the soil. My memory is buried deep, but emerges green, seeking the flower.
A foretaste of summer fills the air with buzzing insects and wilts the remaining camellia blossoms. The floral explosion is astonishing. Lily stalks are shooting up, the mulberry tree is already releasing puffs of pollen, and the azaleas are running riot. I wouldn't be surprised to find the night scented with jasmine long before June. I wonder if we will have any spring rains at all? Poor Sluggo is almost insane with the heat. I've made arrangements for his replacement just in time. No time for reading. Maybe later.