The mellowing spring depressed Jonah, and he didn't know why. The sharp March nights dulled by April, creeping up his spine. He anticipated the intemperate restlessness, kicking off blankets only to pull them up again, the new commotion emerging from winter sleep making him toss and turn. Jonah gave up and lay in the desolate hours of the morning. In the winter it was a wonderful time of stillness, wrapped tightly and lulling in a blanket. At 4 a.m. birds were chirping like a rippling tide, manic and roiling, swallowing him up in the madness of their noise.
The weather lady was overly cheery, heralding the thaw. The soft air smelled faintly of bubble gum, and Jonah was more aware of the space all around him. Every corner of the world was filled with movement and Jonah felt a paranoid awareness of those enclaves. The February world was only as big as the coat around you, settled into a heavy calm, navigated by sojourning pilgrims. The trees looked feeble in buds, more naked for their scant bunting. Jonah walked among them possessively, made a tourist by the traffic of bodies and the spring peepers ribbitting in the fat rain puddles.
Jonah did not relish the promise of change, the stirring wind that dogged him every hour of May. The green melancholy of Spring moved as imperceptibly as the barometric pressure, invisible but building in Jonah's ears, understood peripherally. He wondered if he could drag his feet into the season, and if the unsettling weather would be less threatening if he had more power to stop it enveloping him.
The weather lady was overly cheery, heralding the thaw. The soft air smelled faintly of bubble gum, and Jonah was more aware of the space all around him. Every corner of the world was filled with movement and Jonah felt a paranoid awareness of those enclaves. The February world was only as big as the coat around you, settled into a heavy calm, navigated by sojourning pilgrims. The trees looked feeble in buds, more naked for their scant bunting. Jonah walked among them possessively, made a tourist by the traffic of bodies and the spring peepers ribbitting in the fat rain puddles.
Jonah did not relish the promise of change, the stirring wind that dogged him every hour of May. The green melancholy of Spring moved as imperceptibly as the barometric pressure, invisible but building in Jonah's ears, understood peripherally. He wondered if he could drag his feet into the season, and if the unsettling weather would be less threatening if he had more power to stop it enveloping him.
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