If seasons cease to exist, many of our moods will cease to believe in one another. Early spring melt speaks a kind of language that sits beside whatever might pass for conversation in the bicameral mind. Sometimes that language stays recessed back and whispers and sometimes it hit like a cymbal crash or a symbol smash. Either way being primed to hear what is being said comes from a close and recent acquaintance with some other felt reality, say, the overlapping late winter bone-chill. The one conditions and calls forth the other. And too much concrete and too much living in boxes ends up dissuading us from acknowledging the undercurrent. It doesn’t mean it goes away. It just sits unacknowledged, as though skepticism were somehow warranted on its own terms and not willed and honored only in the breach. That we emerge into language at all is a wonder, yes.