You Must Believe In Spring

We are several days from the vernal equinox, but last night complied with the mandated, meddlesome setting of the clocks ahead by an hour.

We walked today in 60 degree contentment, picking our way around the dog shit and smelling the restorative odors of mud and a brackish lake. Even the fetid odors, released by the snow melt and thaw, are welcome. Winter was hard.

In a few weeks, for the first time since 1981, the local nine take to a ball-field of grass.

My neighbors are taking tentative steps out, blinking and improbably pale. Skin again!

My old friend Basho:

Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps' nest.

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