The rhythms of winter are shaken.

The light is expanding and the air feels moist -- the ick factor of growth initiating beneath our feet, as the worms begin to slide through the softening soil with no knowledge of why, or of the colours of spring: the brilliance of beauty not yet realized.

The dust and gravel on the streets, stirred up by cars passing and churning small particles that choke the air in my lungs and scratch at my eyes. 

There is a hint of warmth from the sun, as the temperature cracks ten degrees celcius for the first time in many months. Was it only months ago?

These days may be more silent, as we retreat and maintain our distance, owing to the unseen murderer that circulates, hijacking the droplets of one to land on the skin of another, infecting an ever-increasing number of people and, possibly, a whole generation: Those who were birthed as the world -- at war with itself -- began its slow implosion. 

My skin expands, wants to open, rather than contract, and there is softness where before there were flakes that itched despite the lathering of lotions to protect it, this outer organ that holds me together; a thin veil between health and decay.

It is spring, and the rhythms of winter strike a slow retreat, fading to stillness as we await the chatter of newborn birds in cloistered nests, the scurrying of critters across our decks, the patter of rain, and then the thunder: the symphony of summer to come.