Fool’s Spring
Don't fall at the first hurdle
Under a soft cornflower blue sky, little birds fight to be heard. Their excitement for temperament weather echoes how you feel, too. The Robin’s song projects the loudest.
The strength of sunlight, in contrast to weakly saturated daylight from oppressive grey skies, gives even the grey stone pavement beneath your feet a sheen. The subtle lustre is a mirage enhanced by the state of bliss you are in. It is still the same street as the day before, lined with empty crisp packets, discarded cans, and dog shit. But in your haze, you pay no notice.
You decided to wear a jacket, but are greeted with many a bare-armed man as you walk. You’re certain that in the shade, or faced with the realities of the breeze that blows, they will be reminded not to get ahead of themselves. It is not quite spring yet, but they cannot help themselves. There are only twenty-four hours left to wait until we reach the equinox, marking the end of our suffering! Another winter survived.
Magnolia trees bloom gently, pulling your attention upward. Their flowers, the earliest signs of life. Pale blossoms entice us out from the cavern of darkness, though we must wait longer for nature’s vivid kaleidoscopes. Nature does not rush.
Along the way, sparrows talk loudly to one another. Their yapping rivals the voices of the robins you heard earlier. They hide away out of sight, but still your nervous system responds, the safe signal successfully triggered. There are no predators here.
In the park, people sit on the grass, now vibrant from all the rainfall suffered in the previous months. On the other side of it, you’re grateful for the water-logged days because they led to this. You sit on a bench and watch. With faces turned to the sky and eyes closed, it is easy to idealise the shape of the next six months. Community and social engagements animate our imaginations.
Already, people have begun to congregate in bigger groups. We behave like animals as part of a pack again. Spaces stood empty since last year have visitors who want to linger longer. You yearn for it, too. You want to stay here in the park among the company of others. The third space of outside is opening its gates to us again.
Parakeets swoop and dart for attention, unlike the coyness of the sparrows. They are not afraid of being seen. Their striking feathers dazzle against the grass, and they begin to look more like they belong, despite still being so very far away from home after their escape.
You are now too hot with your jacket on, and an internal wave of warmth urges you to take it off. The sensation in strange following the months of pulling fabrics tightly around your body, wanting to feel the threads close to your skin as you begged for protection from the cold.
It is dizzying, the change. Despite having experienced the morphing of one season into the next four times a year for every year you have been alive.
In your elation for the sun and highs of seventeen degrees, you forget that the sun sets just after 6pm. The sky is yet to retain its hue and quickly turns to icy blue, embellished at its edges by tinges of lilac and pink. The night comes fast and brings with it a sharp chill, reminding you not to get ahead of yourself. You didn’t prepare, and you shiver as any semblance of heat from the day dwindles.
It is only a taste, one you must savour. We’re almost ready.
