The Northeast experiences spring with a sense of triumphant relief. After months of gray slush and naked trees, the first crocus pushing through a patch of melting snow in a Boston Common or a Central Park in New York is cause for celebration. It is a philosophical spring, a season of re-emergence. The air warms slowly, carrying the scent of damp earth and the sound of dripping eaves. Sidewalk cafes appear overnight, and the city dweller, pale from the long indoor months, turns their face to a sun that finally has warmth. In Vermont and New Hampshire, the "mud season" precedes the true beauty of May, a messy, frustrating, and necessary prelude to the explosion of apple blossoms and the first hopeful taps of the maple trees.

There is a specific moment in America when the national mood shifts. It isn't marked by a calendar date or a federal holiday, but by the scent of damp earth, the sudden chirping of robins at 5:00 AM, and the collective shedding of heavy winter coats.

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