It surprises me every year. Spring, that is. I like looking out my kitchen window, at The Tree, every evening at around 6 o’clock. I’m fairly sure I’ve been keeping track of time, but then suddenly I realize that the crepuscular light I love seems different. I look up at the clock: 6:45. The Tree was set in darkness at 4:45 just a month ago. No, surely that’s impossible. Yet the telltale signs are there: My azaleas are budding; my tulips have pushed through their woodchips (living in an apartment, I have to grow them in pots); the boiler doesn’t turn on as often. But it’s the time of twilight that always takes me by surprise. Am I happy about this? I’m not quite sure.
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