Sprung

This evening after work I climbed from the subway into the grey overcast drizzle of a New York evening in mid-April. A cool breeze wanders by, without much force or sense of direction. And we who emerge to the street are much the same, spinning off into little eddies that gradually lose steam.

It's been weeks, maybe months since I've paid much attention to the world around me. Our winters have none of the brutality of New England or the Midwest, but still, by February I've withdrawn into a cocoon to wait for better days.

And while this gloomy dusk is hardly what I'm hoping for, looking up Sixth Avenue I'm surprised to see a sudden explosion of white blossoms on all the trees. For a moment it takes me completely by surprise, and I wonder if this was what it felt like the first time I saw hard yellow kernels erupt into popcorn.