In the city, the bodegas have buckets of mouse-furred pussywillow; forsythia branches, promising yellow; knob-headed violet hyacinths, show-off tulips and daffodils like closed yellow eyes. In the park, green alien fingers are poking up and out of the ground. My dog smells the change in season. The pace of our morning walks is dictated by new signals from the grass and dirt, and we go on our way in a series of jerks and sudden stops. My right shoulder hates this time of year.
A featherweight more, and winter is done. Spring is in the balance.
Impending spring has me thinking of austere clothes. Black and grey make a restful pause before the tumult of summer color.
EvenCleveland: a change in season