"I still don't know a place with lovelier Aprils.
The mornings and nights are fresh and cool (..).
The damp earth is as red as flesh, or blood,
and so fecund that you can almost hear the thrumming,
rustling push of growth up through it. (...)
I could not seem to stay indoors at night in that first spring;
I was enraptured with the startling,
ghostly white showfalls of dogwood in dusk-green woods (...)
rolled like surf through the wooded hills of the northwest."
Anne Rivers Siddons