Buds

The day is growing ever more beautiful.  While dead leaves lie about in the spaces where the snow banks finally melted just feet away buds are appearing.  In the trees outside my office the buds are wearing that pink toward purple color.  Nailing a perfect descriptor of the color really doesn’t matter. What matters is that the color is not grey or brown.  Grey and brown are dormant winter colors.  There is promise in these buds of at least one more spring and possible one more summer. 

Walking outside at noon into warm sunlight is like listening to a radio jock playing a string songs that just flow from one to another.  From Howling Wolf to Suzanne Vega to a word jazz from Ken Nordine to a silent meditative piece by Bill Evans each song hitting themes or rhythms that just make them fit.  Feeling that sun pour down on my face is the perfect segue from the cave and hibernation existence of winter to real life.