The warmth has hit. The sun pours down. The day reminded me of the scene on a Mexican plate from the early 1800s that I saw recently at the Hispanic Society.

Except I was sporting a ball cap rather than a parasol and my companion was a pit-hound rather than a lion.

Gil and I took some time outside to rake the pachysandra beds and clear away crumbled leaves from a set of rather magical stone steps that lead to a sunset ridge near the front porch. There’s a wood bench at the top. I plan to colonize it this summer, mint iced tea in one hand, Emily Dickinson in the other.

We sat on the patio late in the day. It faces east, over the marsh. A hawk soared, its breast glinting white. The peepers were even less polite than usual. This spring has been so long to come, but the about-to-bloom magnolia knows when the time is right.

Just when you couldn’t wait any longer.