Saturday evening a petulant cloud started scattering tiny, frigid rain drops here and there. It was never enough to call for the use of an umbrella. In fact, using one would probably have drawn the disapproving look of hardier folk, folk who weren’t above putting up with a little rain, folk turn their heat up to 60 degrees in the winter just to appease the unprepared guest, folk who spend most of the summer figuring out ways to stay cool that don’t involve air conditioning.
That same day, all the branches of all the trees seemed to swell ever so slightly, seemed to take on a redder hue and wait, poised, for some signal the warm days were hiding behind the needling rain. A few worms crawled out of their damp holes to drown on the sidewalk.
On Sunday, everything hunkered down to wait. Everything, that is, except for the not-quite-rain which continued to splatter everything, aiming especially for eyes and books and iPods, occasionally gathering itself for a vindictive surge and then sinking again into minor petulance.
And so things could have continued, I suppose, but they did not. They never do. Dull roots, stirring with spring rain, defiantly push past April’s cruelty and the ease of dormancy. The thickening tree limbs split open to reveal tiny leaves, and little purple flowers rushed to carpet the woodland floor.
