Thick fog lay between the houses and in the branches of the bushes and trees on our block this morning. The air is heavy with the aroma of budding leaves, and thin twigs grow slightly less-thin as sap runs under their delicate bark. The daffodils that grow in clumps at the border of the back yard are conspiring, as they always do, to open in unison.
Two days ago, when Ava was helping me in the yard, she walked up to one of the daffodils and plucked its readying bloom right off. Then she grabbed another and did the same. She had her hand on a third before I got to her, but it was spared. She has a thing or two to learn about spring.