The details of the day are a blur of fragments. The clouds have retreated to their spot above the mountains where they hover, big and white and puffy and looking not quite real, like the clouds in a Krazy Kat cartoon. A popular ground cover plant whose name I don't know has suddenly produced hundreds of little purple flowers along the verges of the roads. A tree, also unidentified, has burst forth with immense pink blossoms in the yard of a house with a dusky red tile roof. I've never noticed before what a nice combination those colors make. Birds are chattering all over the place, probably impatient for the trees to leaf out so that there might be protected nesting places. The weather says spring, but most of the trees are lagging behind, cautiously putting out a few small buds, testing the prematurely warm air. If I were a bird, I'd be impatient, too. If I were a tree, I'd be cautious, too. The season, like the day, has a cubist quality about it. Nothing is quite where one would expect it to be, but the composition is nice, if rather unsettling.