Unveiling the Secret Life of Spring Ephemerals: Nature’s Forgotten Gems
This morning, I’m at the wheel of the school carpool when, ahead of me, a boy steps off the curb. He jaywalks on the wide, leafy street where the morning sun bathes every grass blade and tree trunk like a mother attending her newborn, shambles in the way of kids whose circadian rhythms are in profound disagreement with bell schedules. My car is blooming with equally hazy children. I watch him not watching me and come to a full stop in the middle of the street. He’s in front of my right bumper before he notices the five thousand pounds of idling boron steel and aluminum and instead of pausing, lifts one hand, holding it low at his left hip, relaxed, part appreciation, part assumption that the world will wait for him. That this is the way of things. His light brown hair is artfully mussed, as spiny as a Suisun thistle. He crosses, unhurried.
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