I do not need a coat. There is a pleasant wind and dry ground. I am up so early I wake Charlie and Suzi. Sun rises an hour earlier here; we go out before 7 and it’s daylight. Straight to the blue clouded river first. I am home and happy. How could I miss the sea when the river is white and blue under the enormous gorgeous clouds? No, I don’t need to earn spring. I’m here. It’s here. It just is. I was there, in Longboat Key, unable to feel myself into the river woods. And, now here, I am so far from there. The songbirds are loud. Woodpeckers too. Trotting along in front of me, the dogs are content. I am taken for granted, as if I’ve not been gone at all; they know where we’re going and how to get there. There are not many buds. But, in the brooks and streams, here are the skunk cabbages, of course, ruby red, awaiting the bees. I follow the sound of the bubbling brook in the brush and listen to refreshment and calm. We walk through wooded paths to the open river, to the birdhouses. The willow sticks still glow warmly red along the banks of the Charles. We begin to meet walkers and dogs on the trails. Nobody is collecting anything. After our walk, there is unpacking, there is laundry, and then there is writing. I spend a good amount of time today on the post cards poems. They travel well. I revise some, create some, revise more. They are about a place. But I can write them here; I thought the magic might be lost, but it isn’t. They want to be written, wherever I am.