Cherry petals drift
across a washed-blue morning —
spring opens its eye.
The dawn arrived without announcement, a pale wash spreading from the east as though someone had tipped a bowl of diluted ink across the horizon. By seven the cirrostratus had thinned to a veil so fine it barely registered — the sun behind it a white disc with soft edges, casting no shadows.
There is a particular quality to early April skies in this latitude. The blue has not yet committed to the deep cerulean of summer; it holds back, offering instead a provisional, watery tone that suggests possibility without promise. The air carries the mineral scent of damp earth and the faintest sweetness of somewhere blooming.
By afternoon the veil will lift entirely, and for a few hours the sky will achieve that rare transparency where you can almost sense the depth behind the blue — not a surface but a volume, an ocean inverted above us. Then dusk will bring its own performance, and the day will close in coral and lavender.