I detect a certain "springiness" about.
A few weeks ago, I found some delightful jingle bells on the back porch. They made a surprisingly clear and piercing jingle, that was still so soft and delicate that when you heard them you couldn't help but imagine a sweet summer breeze, or the pitter-patter of tiny feet angels' feet dancing on your ceiling. I strung the bells onto a bit of dogbane I'd twisted at home during the Christmas break, and then carried that string of bells in my pocket for about the next week. About me was a haze of silver music, little tinkly notes, and I couldn't help but imagine that everyone thought to themselves that I was somehow very pleasant and soothing, that they could not put their finger on exactly what it was, but it's almost as if they heard bells when I was around. Perhaps it was all that jingling raucous that put the "spring" in all the plants around town (below, an excerpt from an email to my sister): Ooooh. Sandstorms? That does sound exciting. I imagine runnin