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  • The first real song of this Spring is singing right now all round me. The leaves and mighty trees dance and sway together to the soft melody of the wind which has somehow hushed the usual cacophony of the city. At this moment no sirens thrash into the air signaling some crisis or other. Right now I hear no guns firing ineloquent finalities like some sad preacher's dogma. No wails of agony cry out into the whispering azure splendor of this days early evening. It is not yet twilight, the sun lingers, proud of its days work, and the milky moon, so distant and beckoning, has come to see what all the fuss is about. "Spring is upon us once more!" sing the clouds, kaleidoscopes for the waning light. "Tomorrow, atrocity and chaos may reign, but just for now, beauty stands triumphant!" They say with out tongues, those clouds of now, emblems of innocence. And so the green of the parks is dappled with life, basking in this freshest of moments. The cities native hoard migrates to the grass, drawn like druids to celebrate with pagan reverence the glory of the air. Summer will come, I know, and swelter like she always does and the heat will drive us all mad again and the cacophony will spew into our ears and we will be dizzy and drunk with fear that time is spilling away so steadily that we can't savor anything anymore. But not yet, not today. Today every breathy breeze kisses my skin slowly, not rushed. Today the light and color stream into my eyes infusing me with the sublimeness of empirical existence. Today is fat with chance, stout with hope, steeped in promise. And, as dusk looms, today is distinctly not tomorrow. Not yet...
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