The grass hasn't shown itself and the trees are still waving their branches like wet cowlicks on end, bare and black. Other people talk about daffodils and he said it's warm there, like sixty-five degrees. I squeeze my eyes and try to imagine that the color in my cheeks, from last week's break, is real tangible evidence that summer is coming on and its way.

But the truth is that this evening, as I left work after six, the sun was still high behind my car and the sky was still blue and clear.

And, even though my bed is still covered in layers of quilts, and my feet are currently cold, and there's a fire in the woodstove, and the wind is whirling around the house in wintery songs, it still felt like the first day of Spring.