The trees have leaves.
The deuce of it is, I was watching for it. This year I've been careful to chart the seasons, to track the progress of the sun, the temperature, the parade of flowers. Snowdrops to crocuses, crocuses to daffodils, daffodils to magnolias. The maple next to my window has been dead, stiff-armed. Until suddenly it's not; it's shameless; it's stricken, broken out in a rash of green.
It's always this way, with change. Never while you're looking. Puppies into dogs, friends into acquaintances, the bungee drop of wakefulness into sleep.
I hate this.