The day began with rain and chill, but as evening approaches, the sky is clear. The sun is so bright it bleaches the blue out of the heavens. Behind the houses, the trees have filled out their foliage. They are no longer skeletons, but living bodies; no longer ink sketches on a white sky, but a moving painting, green and gold and amber, and all the shades in between. In the evening breeze, the leaves shimmer, shadows shifting. The windows are open, and neighborhood chatter drifts in from the sidewalk, women's voices, exchanging news in Spanish.
When the sun falls through the window like this--, when Spanish chatters on the breeze like this,-- when the sky is cloudless like this: I feel at home. This is my home, the sunlight. This is my home, the sky. These are my myriad homes, the shifting leaves, with evening light gilding them. Sometimes this city feels like exile, and this winter, mild as it was, felt like death. But spring is come again, the sun is shining again, the sky gives itself to me again, and this, this feels like life.