The trouble with the first unseasonably warm days of Spring is that the mind leapfrogs to Summer and all that it signifies. Spring is best appreciated gradually, slowly undraped in all its sweetness, rather than disrobed at once all hot and full. The umbral of May Apple and the bright curl of Fiddleheads are barely out of the duff and already we think of fireflies and hot summer nights and cruising with the top down along an endless highway.
Summer is hardwired in the modern soul as the time for travel, a clarion call as sharp for we deskbound creatures as the equinoctial urge to migrate that rules the natural world. Yes, those heathen collegiate have their Spring Break rituals, but Summer is when the rest of us get restless and eager to peregrinate to favorite beaches and new horizons. My spouse would be content to rusticate in place, making short forays from base camp, but I never shook the appeal of the long trek, the road odyssey made impractical by the high price of fuel and the high energy of restless children, good travelers and eager hikers though they be.
In this season of ephemeral wonders, I resist the pull to go fast forward, seductive though it be. All this new growth is in such a hurry to get where it is going. We will get there in time.