Spring is not a time, is a palpable entity.
Trucks unload squares of grass and uprooted trees, wrapped in ropes. An army of old men bend their back to install the season on traffic islands and communal gardens. In a day or two the work is done and everything is green. Spring usually gets delivered to the capital in mid-March and, every year, it is anticipated by the National Congress, which takes place when the Sun reaches the celestial longitude of 345° and thunderstorms wake up the hibernating insects...