The days are getting longer. I’m doing all I can to conjure spring – but dreading the fragmented feeling that this time of year can bring. There is a scattering of holidays to abort any sense of flow.

After a day of blue skies and quiet, the night blew the lantern off the deck table. This morning, putting things right, I remembered the Santa Ana winds with a touch of melancholy. Remembered the notion I had as a child that the wind had the power to hold me – the wind was a hand cupping my body, pushing me forward.

There are no seasons in my childhood memories. A blur of days shoving me through the world. Towards a retreat.

Do birds really push fledglings from the nest? I’ve seen mother ducks lead the way without looking back. I wonder what the nature of leaving really is.

Winter has barely begun, but the darkness is lifting. There is a lightness in giving in.