Yesterday, the streets were lined with skeletons—tall and bare and brown. Today, the same bodies are enfleshed with green leaf-lings, bones no longer visible. In an act of divine mystery sometime between the dark and the light, life burst forth into my neighborhood, catapulting us from winter into spring in one lone 24 hour period.
I lay on my bed, waiting for teeth to be brushed, and gaze out the open window, taking in the sights and sounds and smells and sensations of spring. Birds titter and call, fledgling leaves rustle in the gentle breeze. The setting sun casts a golden glow across the expanse, while the scent of crabapple blossoms drifts upward on the same sweet wind. A lover of green, I soak it all in.
Yesterday, the grand trees that dominate the landscape outside my window were still bare. Today, they are suddenly clothed. Just like that. Were that all transitions so sudden. Or perhaps at least a few. Perhaps.
The shower runs in the background, my six-year-old's soprano voice cutting through the buzz of the spray. No, it is a good thing not all transitions happen that quickly. Though should you ask me in another twelve years, I'm sure I'll tell you it happened overnight.
The light is fading, the twilight songs moving toward their finales. The breeze settles, and all is calm outside the bedroom window. The rich blue of the sky deepens, and, tonight, for the first time since last summer, there is green against its royal background. Bodies grow restless beyond the bedroom door, and the rites and passages of bedtime await less than patiently. I cast one last glance across the roof tops and tree tops, marveling at the difference one day makes. I leave my pen and paper, my twilight serenade, my moment of quiet reverie, and I go take advantage of this night, before it, too, has passed and become something new.