The temperatures have been perfect here the last two days, it’s warm enough to shed the fleece and cool enough to sleep with the windows open.

If I lay there long enough and close my eyes, if I listen to the birds that have returned to set up camp in the big Oaks behind my place and let the breath of the world float over me, if I imagine it hard enough it feels like a cool morning on the water. Hell, it almost feels like summer back home.

Now though, I’m on the patio in my jammies, and there’s a breeze gentle enough not to offend, but instead it prompts goosebumps and a childish smirk.

I’ve been aching for this for months now, the trees in bloom and the return of the Robins, the chorus that erupts front the trees at dawn to offer a more pleasant alarm that it’s time to start my day. I’m watching a Robin on my fence right now, she has a plump belly and I can almost sense her happiness at having returned home. There’s another feathered fellow on a branch in my neighbors yard and he’s singing songs on shuffle – how does he have so many calls? I always thought each had only a handful but this morning he’s like a flying iPod.

So I’m running behind because I want to savor this, even in spite of the sirens in the distance, this morning is perfect. I can make out a Woodpecker knocking his beak into something solid. He’s going to be bad news for someone, but to me he’s perfect.

March didn’t come in like a lion here, I wonder what that means for the lamb.