Snow boots and cab rides hardly herald the first day of spring. And yet here we are, the arbitrariness of starting something as immense as a season on such a pinpoint. A season that really started already and seems now to be taking a vacation from it's own official birthday.

I can't help think of those documentaries: Elephants walking through dusty wasteland, age-worn paths, getting to water. Until a switch flips in the heavens, and a basin fills with rainwater that fell hundreds of miles away. The elephant family revels in the water and many species gather, putting aside their differences. The animal kingdom, an English voice tells us, rejoices. And they seem to. It all lifts that suddenly, their immense leathered hides and weeping eyes forgotten. The one who didn't make it, who got lost in a sandstorm or just lay down, now at peace sheltered in this great arc of birth and death, drought and renewal.

And if the seasons can be on cue there, why not here, among our paved ways and insulated towers? But of course this precise timeliness is a fiction we're peddled to make sense of our world. Spring and snow will mingle yet, will-o'-wisping the edges of consciousness, luring us to abandon coats and socks a little too early. And yet we can trust it all, moving towards it with dogged faith, always stretching to the next season, shoulding ourselves to that moment when we too can rejoice.

Happy spring, you guys.
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