Spring Fever

This week, I just don't feel like writing much.  The Bradford pear trees are all bloomed out in snowy glory, and the redbud trees are just about to pop.  Texas is awash in golden sunshine, and spring is quivering to be born any minute now.  It's a time of hushed expectation, a pause before joy:  listening for the horn of jubilee.

A languor has sunk into my bones.  All the usual news of the world's folly seems utterly irrelevant in view of nature's advent.  Let the mad pageant of the world roll on by; in spring, even an old man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love, and lust.  And who can blame me, when all around the birds and bees, fish and fowl, trees and plants are trembling with the resurgence of life, the vital Yes of creation?

Or to put it more simply:  this week, I'd rather dream than write.  And here's something worth dreaming about on a lovely afternoon in almost-spring, don't you think?