The wind shifts.

The largest storm on the planet didn't quite fit into the airspace over Wellington.  Despite an admirable attempt to squeeze itself into a more manageable girth, the best it could do was wring out some rain and shoot ornery bolts of lightening at us in a convincing display of its greater power.  It huffed away more quickly than it arrived, scorned, I think, by spring's gently wagging finger.

Spring is watching and waiting.

When the great ceiling cleared of the manic churn of cloud and wind, I caught a glimpse of summer.  At sunrise, the surfers launched themselves over the waves to claim their spots on the line.  Only an hour later, joggers and walkers with their companion kids and dogs arrived to wander the golden shore.  They were barely noticeable beside the fiery dispersion of light on the clear peaks of waves held up by a northerly breeze.  By midday, the sun had warmed us enough that the infrequent, toothless gusts of wind were more like polite coughs than screaming tantrums.

That was yesterday.

The sun rose behind clouds racing on a steady southerly wind this morning.  The bay is roiled by anxious white-capped chop charging the shore.  The beach is empty but for the kelp and wood abandoned by the water.  The waves ride each other, collapsing, reforming and falling again.

I think spring has tucked her hands in her pockets, bracing herself as she watches to see who wins the skirmish between the sun and the wind.