Whirlwinds of green crawl across the road, drunken ghosts rising slowly, then racing into a chaotic arc before tearing off to vanish within the darkened crossed arms of the woods.
There is a constant sound outside of the open windows. The sound of the wind in the sea oats, of the ocean spray racing across the cool, damp sand under the clouded eye of a high, late summer moon.
Only it's April. And there is no ocean nearby. The constant throaty whisper outside is the sound of pollen, blown against the smooth, white face of our little house.
The world is trapped in a bright green noose. Green halos choke anemic streetlights. Spindly limbs and fresh buds labor under a phosphorescent glow in the spring darkness. The smell of new wisteria tangles with the acrid musk of nature's rampant fertility.
There is a blizzard of allergens marching down my street, painting cars, rocking chairs and early azalea blossoms.
Despite the heavy dose of Allegra, I am happy to submit. Happy to give in to the reckless affections of spring.