Sprung

Yeah, yeah, you’ve heard that’s exactly why they call it spring—the earth is awakening, you realize one day when the daffodils appear under the city limit sign and you leave your coat at work overnight. And you wait for her to stretch and sleepily mumble good morning. But then you turn around and “boooing! Surprise!” the green feather at the end of every twig has sprung out and the blanket of pollen is thrown back on every windshield. Spring is more into morning shouts. At least in this area. 40 degrees Friday, Saturday, Sunday, 80 DEGREES MONDAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY [thunderstorm!] FRIDAY! . . . Your coffee-in-a-bowl over letter-from-E on the woodsy patio of Caffe Driade becomes au leaf et bug and you feel that you still haven’t fixed the air conditioner in your (dark colored) car. But whatever, dig out the tanning lotion. Or anyway dig around to see if the match to your flip flop survived winter in the closet, and scroll through iTunes to find the one Kenny Chesney song that you really do appreciate. Wait, did I say spring? You better run to catch up. How about an editorial correction: summer has sprung.