It’s 8:00 in the morning on the first Saturday that feels like summer. Winter is gone but spring never really came around, apparently having other places to be, much like my sense of humor. The sun will continue to rise higher and higher in a sky I can see only as blue-white dappling through the trees outside my window and the day will warm to a boil, warm enough to remind me I’m getting older by showing me my youth in a small panorama of proliferating shadows and breezes and smells of general deciduousness, the air thick with a time that we’re happy to allow to hold us here. Birds I can’t name chirp in those trees, their voices carried on that air, across that time, and I hear among them an airplane and a car and a laugh and I want to go to sleep again, only to go to sleep again, afraid I can’t match their vigor, and afraid, doubly, of not wanting to, not even today. But I get up, and open all the windows to let in 8:01.