Much as I wanted to put it off, hoping yet for a Big One to wrap up winter (not impossible but unlikely), I have to give in and admit that it's Spring. Tornadoes have already been wiping out whole towns and taking bites out of others. Temperatures are getting warmer. The clocks have been set forward in the yearly joke that doing so creates more daylight in a 24 hour day. (That one day is a 25 hour day -- maybe it's that hour of daylight they are thinking of.)
But none of these are the deciding factor for me. These things are all indicators of Spring, but they are not the boiled-down essence of Spring.
I admitted it might be Spring when I came home from the grocery store with two boxes of flower seeds.
I conceded that it is indeed Spring today when the man across the street mowed his lawn.
I observed, long ago, that the definitive signs of Spring are when women start talking flowers and men start talking mowers. This is a general rule of thumb, not a defining of genders. Go to a bar, a diner, a store and listen to the bull talk sessions. Then, you'll know it's spring when women talk flowers and men talk mowers.
When they actually do something about it, then it really is Spring.
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