Tiny pink petals dot the branches of the cherry trees lining my street, straining at their claustrophobic buds. It seems early in the season, to me, for them to be so eager, with a cold bite of lingering winter still hidden in the breeze.
But it has been unusually warm this month, the whole winter in fact, and perhaps they know something I don't. The flowers don't read the news or listen to the daily litany of doom, but I wonder if they're getting their beauty out into the world before things get worse.
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