Last week, Spring tried to spring itself a little early.  The sun was out, no rain, and all the young whippersnappers were out in their tiny skirts and flip-flops, oranged up with fake tan goo and playing frisbee with their smelly dogs.

The magnolia tree outside my office building bloomed, but it didn’t leaf.  Then all the flowers fell and got trampled–if you know magnolias, you know the petals turn black and die if you even look at them sideways, so you can imagine the festering clumps of slimy blackened dead plant detritus clinging to the sidewalk and steps outside.

Today it’s back to normal–howling winds slamming people about and rocketing said dead plant matter into the sky, where it swirls around prettily for a while before blowing into my fifth-floor windows and smacking me in the eye.  Now that’s more like it.

Honestly I am trying to work up here, but the sheafs of notes tacked to my wall all Beautiful-Mind-style are flapping and careening around the office like mad.  Stupid “spring.”