Inches away from the picture window, I sing in the dark. Music seeps into the room around me.  It’s raining a chilly soft-pour;  the parking lot looks like obsidian glass.

I dream of noon on a parkbench, breeze-complete.

Spring seduces, temperatures undulating. Droplets thick with a threatened freeze hang in the air, in no hurry to turn to rain or colder snow.  I risk the chill, wear a whisp of a nightgown; my feet tingle with the concrete below.

My recliner cocoons me as I warble phrases. Warmer weather concerts outdoors can’t come soon enough.  Robins will herald natures’ theatrical season, crickets invite other bugs;  I will search for a gingham tablecloth suitable for picnic lunches.

I revel, alone in the intimacy of Spring. Here under a blackened sky, I lie in sweet anticipation.  Never have I been so grateful for allergies and other signs of new life;  like a joke no one else quite fathoms, I enjoy this quiver of an icy-wet wind.