LAKE MACBRIDE— Arriving home after midnight, it is difficult to resist pausing in the fragrance of the twelve-foot lilac bushes.  19 years passed since planting them in a row, angling from the corner of the house toward the surveyor’s mark. They are mature, as am I.

No cloud blocked my view of the crescent moon and stars. The moon was yellow— as in a children’s book— descending into the atmosphere on the horizon. Alert, I breathed the perfume of spring.

One can’t help but sense spring’s transient nature in the night air. Bound to our memories, and becoming aware of our pausing, we linger until the house lights beckon. And we go in.