The Rumor

Birdsong fills the air, carried aloft on the whispers of spring's first warm breezes.  A deep breath yeilds the scent of new growth--the rosemary in the garden, daffodills beneath the greening trees.  Spring has come before our eyes.  As the Beech trees struggle to hold onto their last crisp, brown leaves, new buds pursuade them to release their memory of winter, laughing as those leaf carcasses drift to the ground.  It's the buds' turn for sun now, and they want no reminder of the winter behind them.  Children lay in the fresh grass, weaving clover stems into crowns fit for kings.  People are out washing their cars while the blooming crocuses look on, whistling and occasionally spraying the neighbor's pesky cat with the hose.  The first butterflies are venturing out, eager to breathe, gasping for the spring air with every ounce of their little beings.  Summer is promised by the hope that spring has brought to us.  Her name is a rumor on the breath of every robin, each new blade of grass, and the laughter of children.  Spring has come, and it only gets better from here.