Where is Spring?

It is too cold for May. My body longs for warmth, blue skies, and the sense of my skin on the edge of sweat. Much of what I love is most enjoyed in warmer weather: an hour on the driving range, the stretch of an achy swing, and watching the arc of a ball against wind and sky, seeking its fall among the green grass, bright and fresh with spring growth. Or the flap of sail in the breeze, removed with a line pulled tautly, and the lapping of water against the fiberglass, watching the lake move past the side with the sun glimmering on the surface. Or maybe something as simple as an evening walk, with the contented panting of my dogs pulling me through the night air as we search for the next most interesting thing. I am eager to light the grill, to cook while savoring the spring silence of the yard, which is no silence at all. It is a lull punctuated by the chirps, swishes, and cracks of nature as critters scurry about their business and the deep and tall timber creak with the push and pull of the wind. 

The sun settles under the tree line, which daily becomes more obscure with the growth of leaves. Soon the summer shadows will creep across the yard, while the beer in my hand, wet and cool, grows lighter by the minute. The sizzle and pop of dinner behind me, and the sounds of family emerging from the porch door, which is now open all evening.