Born in the desert, spring is new to me – on display from the parade of blossoming trees whose names I know and don’t know. Among the named, I favor the quince with ludicrous lipstick-colored flowers overwhelmed by stark black branches. Then come the plum rioting sunlight blooms raining pink snow on all the cars. Then white pear snow and blushing apple snow – the crescendo pink cherry blossoms, ridiculously, insanely gorgeous. Later comes dogwood – when I saw the flowers the first time I was captivated a revelation of simply flowerness. The ones whose names I don’t know I love too — delicate-branches drooping with white fairy lanterns, small native bushes exploding upwards in optimistic yellow. Spring is new to me again.