Saturday passed. A day you literally watched leaves unfold on the trees in the backyard. In the morning, as the frost melted off the roof, the willow branches drooped in yellow iridescence. By sunset, single strands of branches held alternating sprouts of green. One day. One afternoon.
A “where-are-my-shorts?” type of day.
And today we’re back to rain, wind, grey clouds, the random sunbreak punctuated with the occasional passing graupel squall. Kids ride their bikes in the streets between the passing blasts of weather.
While yesterday brought out the smiling masses and got us digging through the dresser looking for our shorts (oh so, long lost), today is one of those spring days that you lock away all the knives, except for the butter knives.
And this day, too, will pass.
And we will actually have to dig deep enough to find those shorts.