Well, it’s here, at least I think it’s here.  Spring, that is.  I’ve been out, every day, all winter, at least four times a day, what with the dogs, in eight degree weather and black skies at four P.M.  So the small changes seen in the past few days, some within 24 hours, cast a spell.

Like the willow’s tall branches that have a pale yellow at the highest points or the slight red on some young oaks around the corner.  Bonus: A cacophony of birds this morning, from robins to European starlings to bluejays.  Great commotion.  Cruelest month only if you are a grumpy poet.

Gustatorily, I’ve had some favas, ramps, and thick, fat white asparagus.  Next week we’re talking blonds and blacks; morels from Oregon.

In the restaurants, chefs are scooping up the good stuff, leaving us civilians with Brussels sprouts, cabbages, cauliflower, and broccoli.  As if.

But if you look high and low, you’ll find the essence of spring around you and on the plate.