Spring Has Sprung!
Buds on trees, flowers sprouting, merry children pointing out fresh birds’ nests. Robins and hummingbirds, acrobatic flights, sparrows and starlings dive-bombing other nests, killing their young, wait a minute. Broken eggs, screeching chicks, an aerial assault, the predator-prey relationship ruining the innocence. Someone do something! Get the children! Leave the stupid birds, just get the children! New life, new adventure, spring is here.
The snow has melted, the sun is shining. It’s time to open the windows for the season and let in a burst of fresh, spring breeze. It’s a bit warm for March, the air rank and humid. It’s time to close the windows for the season, fire up the air conditioners, and release that first artificial chill, a deep arctic blast so much purer than the real frigid temperatures of February. Hear the purr of those chemical coolants as you lie in front of the sweet, simulated winter. “What the hell is wrong with this thing? Is it even working? Honey, I’m going to Bed, Bath & Beyond before they sell out of AC units.” Spring, you fickle beauty, we missed you.
The sounds of the birth season are everywhere. Sphlump, the baseball smacking into leather. Thwack, the crack of the bat. Roar, the call of the crowd. Broonksh, a foul ball into face meat, yours. Ohhh, the crowd has seen something it wasn’t expecting. Damn, oh baby, slightly inebriated fans enjoying the replay. Gotta look alive, a snotty kid in front of you who ducked along with the rest of your section. Mother will they put me in the firing line, you’re the lead singer of Pink Floyd, or you’ve been concussed. Lying, stupid nitwit, someone used your phone to call your wife, who had no idea you skipped work to attend opening day. Glorious, melodic spring.
Nature in springtime is aromatic. Nature smells of blossoms and moss and pollen. Can you smell it? Not with those allergies you can’t. The way you flail and retch with each sneeze, a giant snot piñata — you’re ruining spring for everyone else. Nature is having a good laugh at you. The trees, the lilac bushes, the jasmine and magnolia — they’re doubled over howling at your swollen eyes, rashing skin and pharmaceutical armory. Stop and smell the roses. Grab the roses by their surly stems and whisper, “Spread the word, flowers. Tell the orchids and trees that when night falls I shall return with scythe and blowtorch to avenge this seasonal sinus congestion.” Nature is flammable.
Nothing beats a lazy spring stroll while wearing a tee shirt and jeans for the first time in months, the chipmunks scattering. These clothes weren’t this tight in September. Each step is painful, making it difficult to concentrate on the cute chipmunks. It was exhausting just getting your ripened body into the outfit — like squeezing cheesesteaks into an aperture the size of a mouth — and you can barely muster the energy to lazily stroll through the sunny morning, so sweaty, impossible to concentrate with all the scurrying critters. Stop being so proud and call for help. You’re cutting off the blood flow to your brain. You’ll die on this lazy spring stroll if you don’t dial 9–1–1, the chipmunks clambering over your body in the fresh grass. The spiritual season, spring.
Jon Methven is the author of the novel, Strange Boat.
