After all the rain, and mild temps, you can feel the spring tension in the air, as green fingers shoot up through the leafy mulch everywhere.  In fact, I saw the first crocus bloom yesterday!  Everything is on the verge of exploding into colors.  The native ephemerals aren’t even up yet.

This is my very favorite time of the year, the cusp of spring.  It’s like a great drumroll of anticipation.  Every tiny new bud is a revelation.  I’m not exaggerating.  I don’t want to miss a moment that may never come again.  You blink and you miss it.

Loucious has a different opinion of the wet, muddy yard.  He looks uneasy and put out at the inconvenience of getting his feet wet.  If it’s too cold, he dashes for the indoors.  Of course, if you add a frisbee to the mix, he suddenly forgets all that and goes skidding through the mud and puddles in ecstasy.

Y’s downstairs flowers are bursting into sprays of blue and white.  He keeps asking me if it’s time to plant them yet, and I have to tell him not quite, we have to be patient.  Patience isn’t in an impulsive kid’s vocabulary.  Or in mine, this time of year.

Elsewhere, our criminally insane overlords are dropping bombs on innocent people to distract us from the real business they are too incompetent or selfish to accomplish.  We’re teetering on another cusp, this one hanging on the whims of one demented psychopath.  I read books that came out when I was little that describe the world after a nuclear apocalypse, regressing back to the dark ages, and it sounds like the direction of current events.

You see why I obsess over the earth’s yearly rebirth.  There’s no guarantee we’ll live to see another one.  There, is that cheery and reassuringly routine enough?  I wouldn’t want to scare anyone off!