It is so fresh in the garden, fresh after refreshing rain, fresh with early morning light, fresh with the beginning of spring, fresh with the love of a gentle sun. The trees are in that delightful state of being leafed, newly brightly shining green, still small, still testing the air. The spring flowers are drinking in the rain at their roots, drinking in the sun, sitting as still as the Sunday morning. The sky is all blue except for one tiny white wisp of a cloud sailing east which melts into the air as I look. Now we are all blue, we are benign, we are birdsong, we are promise.