the weather has caught up to my leg hair.

Spring love is wonderful. I find myself gazing into the eyes of birds and even that one crow who always tries to shit on me can't take the skip/trip out of my step. I look out my window at night and am torn between a love of leaves and lament that they block the stars. In spring, Scandi Seattlites get back of the neck burned at 68°. She got her first kiss last night on a dock with meteors in the sky, which I love for her. There are flowing skirts and cutoff shorts with prickly winter legs and floppy hats and sometimes shirtless lawn mowing or fully clothed weed-wacking in our case. Our darling neighbor planted flowers in our dandelion patch when he thought no one was home. I finished the best Steinbeck/book I have ever read, and I know now that I have a choice. I am loosely pursuing the harmonica and drinking beer on the porch, both of which are learning me how to pucker my lips, which are starting to regain feeling 3 or 4 years post jaw-saw. I told my bedmate that I wanted a musical outlet, and she thought that was funny. "You're the best whistler i know, and you sing and drum and stuff. What more do you need?" She's probably right, but this season just brings out the creator in me and I want to perform and create and maybe even procreate (shock value!) because hanging out with a baby and a 4 year old every week makes me so. So. Happy. To be in love with spring.