Outside, the world is still mostly brown and grey, but look closer. The tips of branches are swollen with tiny fists of green. Crocus blades push through the half-frozen soil like needles through cloth. A single purple bloom, brave and reckless, cups a droplet of last night's rain.
The first day arrives not with a bang, but with a whisper. You notice it in the softness of the light—a honey-gold slant through the kitchen window where, yesterday, the sun felt sharp and cold. Then the sound: a single bird, uncertain at first, testing a note it hasn't sung in months. By noon, the whole chorus joins in, rusty but eager. seasons spring
This is spring. Not summer's riot, but the hinge between cold and warmth. The season of almost. Almost warm. Almost green. Almost there. Outside, the world is still mostly brown and