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.