Early March.

We started cold, but even in that cold, you could feel this: an afternoon a few degrees warmer than they said it would be, the yard greening over almost as you watch, spring training baseball coming through on the old wi-fi. The corner apartments have their landscaping guys out doing something with string trimmers and leaf blowers. Right now the Toad's coming out of his nap half an hour early, singing about the moon and about the park to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle. We are in the place where all songs bend inexorably toward Twinkle, Twinkle. And can you blame him, by the way? The Toad? For waking up early? You want to be outside when it turns like this, so suddenly—yesterday was winter. Today is assuredly not. Today is a day for songs. Take me out to the ballgame. Take me out to the crowd. How I wonder what you are.

We'll hit sixty tomorrow. We'll push seventy the day after that, then tilt cool again. These are the weeks where we wear all the clothes.