A seasonable weekend here in Portland. Temperatures run in the mid- to high-forties. The sky is bright and white and uncertain, like a precocious child.
I noticed the crocuses this morning, walking to Fred Meyer. They strained blindly toward the lights, petals closed.
I saw them again on the way home. Their petals were wide as fledgling beaks awaiting the worm.
It must have happened quickly. The interval between the two sightings was no more than 20 minutes. If I'd stayed to watch, I might have seen it.
As the worry-worn among us will note, there is yet another month of winter to go and we might still have snow. It has happened before.
But on a weekend like this weekend, it's hard to believe.
And why would the Great Whatever play with our hopes like that?
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