Ah, the gentle sound of lawnmowers on the breeze. The rustle of last fall’s leaves being gathered into corners, into sacks. The creaking backs. The scent of last year’s heavy gloves with last year’s rain and soil. The brighter sunlight calling us toil. It must be spring.
Ah, the sound of squirrels and bluebirds quarrelling, of padded paws and dogs that chase outdoors. Then scent of fresh-mown grass, and better still the daffodils, sun-headed, greeting season’s turn at last.
Ah, the sound of distant cars that pass on distant roads, vacationing perhaps or just in dreams; the hope of spring.