There is a bud, burgeoning on blossom on the second bush to your right and straight on 'til morning. There has been a frost and the air is cold, the ground crunching with a thin sheen of ice as you step decisively forward. The sun will come out today and melt all this so that it will then make us forgetful and hopeful. And as the ice melts and turns to water, this bud will drink it all up, finding the warmest air pocket in which to blossom its head, and suddenly - POP; It has opened and is smiling, yawning toward the yellow orb in the sky. That orb we call Sun, that will painstakingly look toward with care in hopes of predicting future weather, as we look to astrological stars for hope and change and tips and clues and tricks to how to be, how to act, what to lean in toward within our own personal solar systems. Budding romance, budding friendships. Weed in little plastic baggies being crumbled into the teeth of awaiting grinders so that it becomes loose and dust-like. A tram-car to a different dimension for awhile. And I pray you please keep you hands, feet, and arms inside the vehicle at all times. Open window blowing breezes, birds singing Sunday song, it is easy to forget we are not alone.