A thin sliver of waxing moon hung there for a while, but was outlasted by the night's airy scent of spurge laurel, which is here several weeks early. Spring this year is like a guest one is always delighted to see, but who has arrived at the party too soon, while you are still in the shower and the canapes are yet unmade. Everyone is embarrassed, as you stand there at the door, dripping, not knowing what to say. You wonder if winter has hastily dressed and decamped through a back window, or will it suddenly emerge from another room to put an even greater chill on the moment? If the latter, will spring gracefully bow out, promising to return later, apologizing for the faux pas, or will there be a scene? These situations are so awkward.