Still cold; cloudy days, and rain . . . every now and then I catch a glimpse of a tree veiled in pale, transparent color . . . or a smudge of yellow or purple on the ground where a daffodil or crocus has managed to bloom. Sheer brushstrokes of color imperceptibly appear. This spring is so slow. Maybe shy, hesitant--scared to come out, scared the seasons will reverse and a black and haggard winter will leap out at her. Maybe I'm scared too.