Mile Markers.

The light's changed. We're greener out there, and yellower. We've maybe come out of (the temperature now or next week notwithstanding) that flat winter white. The trees are budded out, the maples are blooming, we suddenly have several hundred more birds in the yard—those waxwings cleared on and out to wherever waxwings go, and in their wake the neighborhood is full of other songbirds, of wrens, of robins, of whatever all else settles in here for the season, hangs on for the summer.

About time to go to the prison farm to buy ferns for the house finches.

We were chilly today, though not too cool to take the Toad and the dog out to the back porch for an evening sit down. They do love themselves some breezes. We're supposed to see sixties tomorrow, and then we temper things some, remind ourselves that the cherry trees haven't even bloomed yet, that the dogwoods are close but not yet there, that there's no color yet in those azalea buds. It always gets cold again, people. Often enough it rains and hangs onto it for a week or more. Baseball is cold well into April. We are getting closer. We are. But we have things to do first.