As he picks up pace, he pokes and twists, pokes and twists. I wait for the crutch to dig into the rain-softened turf and vault him into oblivion. I give him the sort of wide berth one usually reserves passing horses or unleashed Dobermans. But somehow he survives. We all have our ways of greeting spring.
Some people test their mortality.
I get out. So spring comes and I escape the desk. For all the concern here in Washington about the politics, most people worry about more pressing things. Here are two guys walking, talking in hushed animation about something or other. They look like father and son.