The calendar says late winter, but the sun beguiles and charms. I drop my bag of marking, pick up my camera and head outside. What is that I feel on my back?
Warmth. Faint, but definite. I close my eyes and turn my face upwards, bathing in warmth. I cannot help but smile.
Oh, look! The first forsythia bud is opening. Soon there will be a flurry of gold.
An unnamed and soon unloved weed displays a starry cloud that provides for it a short reprieve from yanking.
Fragrant rosemary opens purple to the light, awaiting the bees. Like a slow awaking from a heavy sleep, earth stretches and sighs, slumbers a bit, and stirs some more.
"Soon," she mumbles, "I'll be there soon."
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