Spring comes at the end of the cruelest month with a warm sunrise out of the sea.
It is a day not marked on any calendar nor forecast with precision. Warm sunrises may come and flicker and fade in sorrow to wintry nights, but there is always a daybreak that is the day of days; there is always a morning forbidding mourning.
You can tell when the day of days has come. The air itself will herald Spring with a hint of warmth in the predawn humidity as if the moisture in the air tingled with a promise that hot house days will come again. The sun will rise in colors of fire, having shed the pale chastity of winter whites. The sea will be softer without frigid nights to sharpen the wave crests.
Winter steals down from the North like a wolf upon the fold, but Spring will always rise from out of the sea.
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