A thunderstorm threatened but did not follow through. Instead, just half an hour of heavy rain. Thinning clouds shift. Sun comes through in pencil beams. The sky holds onto remnants of grey in the eastern horizon. In the west are lighter hues.

Simone avoids the pools on the sidewalk, veers from wet protruding branches of unkempt hedges. She jumps and barks, indignant, at cars that speed too quickly through puddles, splashing the sidewalk, almost splashing her. The rain has washed away most of the scents so there is little reason for her to stop. Our walk is brisk.

I take my jacket off. I never seem to get it right. The weather confounds me. Too many layers. Not enough. These little things confound me. Every action requires a decision to be made. Should I tie the jacket around my waist? Should I carry it in my arms? I'll carry it in my arms.

Simone is sniffing around a large hosta. She is studious in her sniffing. It is almost ritualistic. A blue eyed husky comes up from behind and lifts its nose at Simone. Simone glances back at it. Two years ago, she would've kicked her feet in fright to get away. A year ago, she would've turned and barked, hackles up. Now, she goes back to sniffing.

The trees have captured the earlier downpour. The wind blows and leaves shed their water so along the road it rains under each tall tree and each drop is lit by the warm sun of the soon-to-be dusk such that the drops look like cascades of gold.

We walk around the perimeter of the dog park. Simone watches the dogs at play. They are formed into pairs and trios. Two dogs, each with dark, longish hair are facing off, barking at each other - to what end? For the joy of it, I suppose. Two other dogs are wrestling in the wet sand. One on top, then the other. Simone looks at them then looks away. She is leery about roughhousing. Two smaller dogs, Beagle mixes perhaps, are chasing a third, a mixed Husky pup rescued from the north, who is not yet much bigger. "Doesn't that look like fun?" I ask Simone who is grazing the tips off new grass. Last thing in the world, I am sure she would say.

The sky is painted in newborn colours - clouds blue, pink and white. There are still large patches of brown in the park. No worries. The rain will bring everything back to life because life follows water. There is no choice in this regard. The breeze carries along a rising, moist, earthy scent. The breeze is just cool enough. My jacket is ready just in case. It's been a long long winter but spring always follows. There is no choice in this regard and this expectant season has finally arrived.