April doesn't knock.

It just arrives, all blossom and birdsong and the smell of freshly cut grass so intoxicating you stop mid-sentence, close your eyes, and completely forget what you were saying. Which is fine. Whatever it was can wait.

Some dates are invented. Others exist whether we’re here or not.

The first of January turns up because we agreed it should. Fireworks. Resolutions. Slightly aggressive gym memberships. But March? March doesn’t care about our planners. The sun crosses its invisible line in the sky. Day and night stand level for a brief, beautiful moment. The light shifts. The soil warms. The birds absolutely lose their composure.