It seems like we have a reprieve from the biting cold, although even with the clear sky and the bright sun it is still very cool. The trees are holding back, hesitant to let their leaves forth. But the streams are flowing with a merrier trickle, the grass flushed greener. I'm here at the Union, and through the window a sycamore is standing, arrayed in seed pods, and next to it a mimosa, also full with seed pods, thin and hanging like drapes. Two small children are at play by the stream, a boy and a girl. They bound from one edge of the stream to the other, jumping and leaping for the joy of it. The boy capers a moment, then bends to dig something from the water. The girl has found a stick and is charging up and down the stream with the stick in hand. Three more children join them. In this moment if only it were possible to measure their happiness, for it is the most rare and beautiful thing in all of creation.