Spring and Such Skies

It is now four fifty in the afternoon.
And as the hustle of the city barely reaches here, I can hear birds rattling on, and kids playing without the worry of tomorrow. The sky drops a little lower, the lights a little brighter, ruminating the day a little longer.
The first day of Spring.
There is an instinct, a tingling, in my skin, that makes me know, without looking at the markings on the calendar, that Spring has come. I like to think that the cave woman I descended from gave me that. Her prowess is still somewhere in that maze of my mind, that can touch the air and tell, that can smell the sky and then ring the glass bell.

I have a fondness towards the Winter, as much as I would like to think that Monsoon is my season, I know Winter is the closest thing in nature, that I can say, resembles my mind. So losing Winter is no easy thing, but there cannot be a more glorious goodbye than this.

Spring knows how to say goodbye.
Spring knows to let go.
Leaves to let go, and grow new ones. Greys to let go, and grow green ones. Skies to fill up with abundant light.

I cannot quite decide what is the smell of Spring. I ought to ask my cave woman. She knows, but she is rather moody and doesn’t give out appointments. I think she only has soundless soliloquies.

I think of time a thousand years ago. Thousand years ago, in this day, the birds sang, in the same language they are now singing in.
So for now, they are my only connection to the past, the past they bring back every time singing. Where my cave woman is hunting.
And like the Spring, she knows to let go.

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