This morning a wan sun shines through skies streaked with fleecy clouds and patches of pale blue. Dare I say that here and there, in ground level brush I see traces of celadon, tiny leaves so delicate and ethereal as to leave me questioning their substance. This is spring in the Midwest. This is spring in the Corona Virus pandemic. This is spring, coming as it always has, in fits and starts but ultimately in all the glorious reality of yet another season of growth.