By late February, the year begins to feel impatient.
Supermarket aisles announce what hasn’t quite arrived yet. Hot cross buns appear before the light has properly shifted. Chocolate eggs sit under fluorescent bulbs while winter coats are still zipped to the chin. The calendar insists on moving forward, even when the weather hasn’t caught up.
After rain, a city briefly reorganises itself.
People adjust their pace. Light shifts register. Puddles gather what the pavement has shed and hold it still for a moment — lanterns, windows, passing figures — before everything resumes.