Today, it is finally March. The weather we've had all winter at last makes sense here, and spring is creeping in, like some kind of flower-bedecked serial killer who, it turns out, was making the call from inside the house.
This morning, two mourning doves perched on our tiny porch's railing, enjoying what I fancied to be a romantic moment before flying off for a busy day. I haven't seen a robin yet, but I'm sure they're not far behind.
It's time to enjoy songs with spring in their notes, like the one above by the Bill Evans Trio, or Monk's April in Paris. Soon buds will appear on all the bleak trees, and they will hang up their dull coats for half a year or more. Green shoots will wriggle out of their confines below the earth, and everything will be a sign of life, motion, continued existence.
Spring, for me, emphasizes the hope I keep. Yes, I'm getting older. I'm not entirely sure what I want from the rest of my life, nor how I should seek it out. But why shouldn't I hope for it, whatever it may be? We hope for spring, and it always comes. Why shouldn't some of our desires mimick the turn of seasons?
It is March. Hope is in the air. (And hopefully, not serial killers.)