There is a pile of grass-stained soccer cleats in the floor of my van.
The leaves we never got around to raking last fall are cheerfully decomposing, revealing their hidden treasures of rusty Hot Wheels cars and Legos underneath.
Strange contraptions are appearing in my backyard, contraptions made of a stick, curling ribbon, a deflated ballon and Scotch tape:
Curious holes appear around my backyard, most likely dug using my good spoons.
My daffodils bashfully reveal their color, while the hyacinths get ready explode right into theirs.
Something in me stretches, and yawns, and breathes deeply.
It must be spring.