It's in the Spring that love means most to us, when flowers rise, applauding their own miracle, and every event is unique as a lightning bolt, so that even Resurrection is not entirely out of the question. In this time of wonder, even grey, autumnal cities grow, spreading branches full of birds' nests to tangle thin wires of stretched conversation, forcing hermits and housewives outdoors to do their talking. In Spring, the sky tugs joyfully at the slow legs of spiders, hurrying them to fill the airy spaces with silken writings. It breathes on eggs and dragonflies, and, in slight willows, worms are etching patterns. Writing and singing, the smallest creatures fill the sunny pages with psalms. See! God has heard them, and writes to the yet-sleeping, to know if they still love Him.