Purple and yellow crocus and tiny white snowdrops litter parks and front yards as if spring has truly arrived. On overcast days, like this one, they are closed up tight awaiting the sun. In reality spring seems reluctant to appear, and when she does she is spooked by her own shadow. Inside my head, Frederick and Arbour both search in all the known hiding places, and—look!—spring is finally found in bed with winter, naked as the day she was born.
Telegrams with a limited number of words, sent slower and cheaper than a regular telegram.