Just yesterday, like a postscript to its own end, winter returned to lay heavy snow on what had been blooming.
As if to ease our anxiety, spring arrived early this year. We were treated to another quiet Sunday, filled with the sweetness that lungs love.
Yesterday was a day for relaxation. As with every spring, and perhaps more so this one, people dressed with nonchalance and, like migratory birds returning from a long journey, rested by a stream.
The emptiness of February and the plunge into the ordinary of transient life, I return to it; perhaps I had never left this motionless present before after all.