This Is Also Spring A moment can be a memory which makes me wonder if a moment can fail to be memory. Can I be so erased from time that seeing and hearing and yes, smelling the wind does not trigger other moments, make me remember another time, another wind like the sting from smoke on the Santa Ana, a wind so persistent that it has a name. But that was another time and this is now. This unnamed wind has no reputation, but it comes each spring and blows rain and bottle cap-sized hail, beating back the first blooms of spring, leaving them broken in the mud. This happens so much that it is not a memory, only detail for what spring is— a snapped green stem next to torn yellow petals.