“It’s Spring!” the child shouted, shedding her coat and dancing in the grass.
“No, no, not yet,” called her parent. “Spring doesn’t start for another month.”
“But the flowers are blooming.” And so they were, crocuses, their lips bright and shining purple and red.
“Spring doesn’t start for weeks,” said her parent, holding a calendar, flipping the page to make it clear.
“The yellow flowers are everywhere,” said the child. She was right, daffodils festooned the roads, covered fields, clumped around the school.
“Enough nonsense,” said her parent. “Come inside. It’s winter.”
So the child went inside, and her parent showed her the tiny black lines, the boxes and numbers that told her when spring would come.
But the geese couldn’t read the calendar, so they flew overhead in their springtime homecoming. And the plum tree, all unconcerned about the tiny black numbers, unfurled a thousand pink blossoms, which nodded in the warming breeze.
