Route 295 is usually not much of a source of inspiration.  It's not even something I notice much any more.  It's just a highway through the heartland of the western Jersey suburbs, with a view of trees and concrete walls that's  occasionally interrupted by an industrial park or massive strip mall.  But today, after my mother picked me up from the bus station, we drove home on 295, and I was suddenly struck by all the signs of spring.  The pine trees are no longer the only green - the grass is coming up in vigorous emerald tones.  The flush of buds throws a rosy sheen over branches, casting a warming glow across the skyline.  And here there, a tree has burst into blossom, a soft, frothy contrast to the surrounding evergreens.

And just as I was commenting on all these gorgeous vernal notes to my mother, it started to snow.

I hate April.