The first Spring morning greets the world with glory. The birds understand it better than I. My chest longs for the rapture they embody. The air is not wet, but not dry. What was ice dissipates into cool mist, as if the winters cold could not withstand the sun’s joy. As I walk along the path, the optimistic sun flickers through the tree as he rises, a pleasant intrusion upon my vision. If only I could be guided by the joyfully inconsistent pattern, ticking my skin and lighting the my eyelids, I could walk with no direction. Today, destination and intrusion do not exist. The birds know better than I that winter serves to store up Bliss until, on its own accord, Spring decides to bound forth, not a moment too soon.