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Rites of Spring

Wayne Wolfson By

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Spring was the sweat running down the back of her legs. It is the pack of young dogs running down the street in their best clothes, new haircuts and fresh packs of smokes always kept in the left pocket of their sports coats. Ready to offer one up to a beautiful or willing lady, unwrapping the cellophane in front of her, the pack as yet unopened granting the illusion of being overly flush. There is plenty more where that came from 'Darlin.

The Jardin des Plantes, a wealth of flowerbeds full of poppies with warped medallion shaped heads the colors of candies. Everything is in bloom, a pagan celebration of nature's fecundity and the desire which renews it, phoenix like, every spring always accompanied by the orchestral swell of horns and the timpani player who has waited sixty minutes to play his one part. Wringing his hands, Stravinsky stands in front of Dalloyau's and wonders whether it would be bad form to eat some pastries while sipping his Whisky Cambell. The change of seasons, the hows and whys, all secrets, are encoded in her kiss.

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