This was the day I wore shorts on our walk, and a t-shirt, a loose, white one with a faded logo on it. And in The Run the sun was blinding and warm on my arms and I could hardly see Duncan through its glare. I shielded my eyes and was happy to see the dance of a million small flying gnats no bigger than motes hovering in the air and taking delight in the warm rays and blue skies. As we moved forward they brushed against my cheeks and through the hair of my arms and bare legs, catching and then pulling free, spiraling downward for a moment before they remembered their new wings and caught themselves before meeting the earth.
This was the day the sky was still brilliant blue when we walked in the park and the wind played with the few white fluffy clouds, coursing over and around them, smoothing them out and laying them flat like fresh linens settling onto a bed. And down where we walked, the wind––if it could be called that, for it was little more than a precocious breeze––was warm and soft, barely stirring the newly greening grass, caressing us as it passed over, its fingers tip-toeing across us and brushing the back of our necks like the familiar caress of a lover playing.
This was the day the sun settled behind the mountains and the wind and the walkers in the park along the edge of the duck-laden lake paused as though to listen to the sound of it sinking behind the horizon, the mountains turning black below the orange and honeyed sky, the lake reflecting and memorizing every moment, precious and perfect.
This was a glorious day, the first, as far as Duncan and I are concerned, of Spring.