Cherry blossoms pink, and tender as baby's breath. Fresh cut grass.Birds chirping and chattering love songs in the trees.
Dogs begging for scones, caught between howl and bark, the no-man's land of "maybe," eyebrows and ears alternating between up and down, now standing, now skulking, now sitting...
"Maybe, maybe, all the world's a scone,
and as long as he's chewing it's STILL maybe!"
Yes, a piece, but I'll keep all the orange icing for myself, beloved cur.
The breeze is soft, laden with the edges of rain in some far off place that is not here, and the boy cat chases the girl cat from behind the garage and out amongst the dandelions spotting the grass, the ones that ducked their heads under Jen's mower blades last night. It is good to be in charge of...
...Spring.
