A few notes of bird song drifted across Route 18 during a momentary lull in the traffic. “A Song Sparrow,” I said to Carol, “now where would a Song Sparrow be?…”; there aren’t many places in a marine industrial zone where a Song Sparrow would want to sit and sing. We came up to the top of the pedestrian bridge over the highway, in the March sunshine. “It’s so warm,” said Carol. “It feels like spring.” It felt like spring all the way over to Pope’s Island, where we bought a newspaper and a couple of magazines. But on the way back, the clouds started to cover the sky, and it felt damp and chilly down by the water of the harbor, and it stopped feeling like spring. Even though the sun peeked out now and then, it felt gray and dim, it felt as though real spring wouldn’t come for months.