Spring

Here's a little ditty from my favorite author, Tom Robbins, from his book Villa Incognito. I think it's a good ode to spring:

April. Spring was on the land like an itch. The whole countryside seemed to be scratching itself awake--lazily, luxuriously, though occasionally scratching so hard its nails hit bone, that old cold calcium that lies beneath our tingles. Tiny frogs, raked into alertness, were being scratched from muck and mud. Tiny buds, as bright as blisters, were being scratched from hardwood. The trees themselves, as juiced on sap at Tanuki [an Ancestoral Animal being in the novel] ever was on booze (though the trees had a great deal more dignity), were scratching long blue notes from the sky.
A thousand insects tested their motors, anxious for this year's grand prix of nectar and blood. Crows that had looked so black against December's drifts now found their stark menace diluted, the tints of spring doing to them what Technicolor was to do to Boris Karloff. No mild yellow ray had sweetened their spooky cries, however, and the crows went right on auditioning for the demon role in some imaginary Kabuki, their squawk periodically obliterating both peep and buzz. Those caw calls must have had a bugling effect, because nature was definately out of bed and getting ready to put its shoulder to the wheel.