That was a depressing story, about how kids can be horrifically cruel to each other and not even realize it, or perhaps about how people in general can be really cruel. Ray Bradbury, how I love thee.
But the title has a rather lovely ring despite the darkness of the story it belongs to. Today felt like all of summer's promise, condensed into twenty-four lovely hours of sunlight and warm air and light breeze.
Summery days: They feel so much more valuable when they are scattered here and there among dreary days. After a succession of cloudy mornings, inclement afternoons, evenings when you wonder whether it's really April--after all the chill and the rain that falls when you most dread it--after all the grey: then the golden, shining air and the arching blue sky seem a masterpiece to be stared at. A hot bath to be soaked in. A jewel to be polished and treasured. A bird to hold gently, curl your fingers around, quiet your voice for--and to release a moment later. It flies up into the air, and you run after it, laughing. The world is new again.