While the rest of the world welcomes spring (and in parts of the US, they still have some snow), here in Arizona, we’re already baking. Temperatures have hit 100 and the flowers are already dying. Spring, if you can call it that, happens so fast here that I barely have time to notice it.
In Pennsylvania, we had a spring whose length of time varied. Sometimes it lasted a long time, and the crocuses were often up by Easter. Sometimes the spring was shorter, but always there. I never realized how much I’d miss having 4 distinct seasons until I moved somewhere that didn’t have them. That’s the way of it, though. When you’re living through something, it’s easy to take for granted, because it’s always been that way.
When I first moved here, the brown seemed soothing, and the sameness seemed clean and relaxing. It still seems that way, but I miss the quirky personality of the jumble created by all the differences back East. Some houses are new, some are old, but they don’t match one another. There are greens and browns and purples and blues and reds. It’s like an abstract painting rather than a landscape sometimes.
I throw open my windows and enjoy the fleeting spring for as long as I can out here. For in the rest of the world, it may still be spring, but in Arizona, we’ve moved on to summer.