Daylight Saved.

Or so they say. I won't believe it until tonight, when it's seven and still not dark. And I was in dire need of the switch, lost and gone hour or no: those 6:15 sunrises had started to wear thin.

We're 75 degrees and hugely sunny here on the front porch, with what I'd say is something between a gusty breeze and a breezy wind coming in out of the west and south. A pair of house finches are trying to nest in one of our new ferns, which is no good, since it's not really fern time and the plan was to bring them in next week or the week after to avoid what has to be a coming freeze. Now that plan is null and house-finchingly void. Plus we'll have to have a dead damn fern hanging on the porch post-freeze until the whole finch-making process runs its course. It's tough going here at 709, friends and fans of spring rites. Tough going, indeed.

The Bradford Pears, for those of you scoring at home, are right on the verge of blooming. The dogwoods look quite close. Some switch got flipped here in the new back yard and one of our varieties of weed is sending up tiny pale white blooms. It is right about on us. Best to make yourselves ready. Don't put the flannels in the attic yet, but get ready all the same.