I never cared a whit for all that frolicky crap about spring – the bad poems, gorged with adjectives, written for dim children. I like movement. I like raking the last of the leaves, washing the cars, carrying the old red chairs out of the cellar, lifting them above my head, curving around the house and setting them in the yard. I like opening up, one window at a time unsealed and the smell of fresh earth coming into the house. I like playing Wolf soccer on the rough ground away from the trees, three balls ricocheting from corner to corner and the dog madly trying to herd them all. On our walks I like to watch the unsettled water of the full creek, free of the restraint of the cold, rifting and eddying and cutting into the meander. I like watching the hawks in the tops of the sycamores watching me warily. I like the light on my face. Even on rainy days in spring, I know it will return stronger than the day before.