We wished for the sun. We shoved winter away. On a pleasant April Sunday it beams down, implacable. Wisps of clouds, weary, refuse to offer help. Tulips are finished. Gotta cross the street for shade: 13 + 17 year cicadas primed, Fire warnings, waiting. Ash and mulberry pollen lurking. One good storm away from a mosquito dinner. Counting down days 'til corn sweat returns to the news.
Every year I wonder if I like spring. Do I? What is my favorite season? Autumn, winter, with summer and spring tied? I am not sure.