Mr. Homer, My Ninth grade English teacher once made a point of describing the joy he felt on that day in Spring when you first notice the buds on the trees. I’d long forgotten that description until moving back to Massachusetts.
In California, there are always some trees that have leaves. The winter months there mean rain and a return to lushness from the brown of Summer.
New England is defined by the transition of colors: orange, gray, white, gray, green.
Biking to work these past few days has required a quicker set of reflexes to avoid the reemergence of the joggers. Many exposed legs and arms iterating above the root-knarled path along the Charles. They wear t-shirts that don’t quite hide the thin layer of Winter insulation that motivates their activity.
The buds are on the trees, and I only noticed yesterday. Thanks, Mr. Homer