The mornings here are not so dark anymore. The days are not so tightly sealed at both ends. When we go for walks in the evening, we leave our scarves at home. People we know are grilling onions and asparagus out-of-doors and playing guitar on their balconies. Sundays, we pick a direction, keep driving down the long, straight country roads until we reach the next and nearest town, a quick flash of a place called Hope. We find the only open diner and order biscuits and gravy and ninety-nine cent coffee. We wonder what they're doing there, all those people trickling in after church, in that one-road town with its two-bit zipcode, and how long do they want to stay there, and where would they go if they left, and are they as thrilled as we are, perched on spring's eve, at how early the sun rises now.