The beginning borders on violence, as things at their start often do. A constant wash of wetness clings to everything, even on the warm dry days, even when the sky is full only of the barren sun. The whiplash of the growing season is rustling up the remnants from the last season, exposing its leftover decay. The nakedness of the past will be carried away on the pushy wind, leaving behind the scent of flowers and the settling of a new rhythm.