There are days in spring wherein advance seems as passive as is the progress of a log down the race of a spring freshet.

Then there are other days wherein it seems that every mote must feel to the full its sentient life, and its swelling towards development or fulfilment.

On a day like the latter, everything and everybody bestirs.

The dust motes spin in whirling columns, the gnats dance for their lives their dance of death before the wayfarer.

The gardeners and the grave-diggers turn up the earth with energy, making the clods fly like water.