If you are a person who believes that there are no changes of season in California I already know at least two things about you: 1) You live somewhere that has horrible, somewhat predictable weather and one of the ways your string out the endless short, dark days of slush, fog, piercing cold, wet shoes and endless ugly commutes is fantasizing that a glimpse of a first crocus is gonna really set your world to rights; 2) You have never taught a group of high school sophomores after lunch during the past 50 years. If you had and you lived here in the paradisical Bay Area of California, you would know that at the first very warm day, prematurely shoving its beautiful head into February before retracting it again for a few weeks like a turtle who realizes he’s once again lost the thread of where the fly went, something in the air sets the blood and hormones of young persons skydiving madly. Girls show up at school with barely enough cloth, no matter how you arrange it, to adequately cover the spots parents tell their toddlers not to let anyone touch. Boys who already need little encouragement to practice procreation now want all day and all night rehearsals. Your thoughtful blatherings on about To Kill A Mockingbird and the importance of at least some punctuation fall on ears so closely attuned to the great symphony of life that you might as well be speaking French, which I tried one time and no one made a peep although I’m reasonably sure they were mostly all awake.
It is Spring and every single blossom in the region explodes simultaneously, some prematurely and some after waiting those few short months between daylight and daylight. Your dog body slams you when you suggest a walk, your own body wants to dance to the music at the grocery store and you see, finally, the ladybugs you didn’t realize you were waiting for.
Springtime at last, as sweet as a flute on a wine shaded patio, as warm as the breath of a kitten on your chin.
Oh, what are we to do with all this light?