On a sunny afternoon in March, on a bench in South Park between second and third street in downtown San Francisco, this occurs to me. That it is never in the middle of a season that I can discern its identity. In the middle of a season it seems to be just the way things are. But in between, when two seasons are still deciding whose turn it is to play, playing tug of war, winter and spring, so that the days before this were all rainy, dark, and dreary, and the weatherman said this morning that the days after today will go back to the same. In this back and forth it is clear to see what the seasons are like. On a sunny day like today, I am open. I can see more. Like shower water, hot opens up and cold closes in. In the open hot sun, the brightness shows to me finer features that are hidden in the dark, as parts of general dark masses or concealed in ambiguous shadows. In the light it all seems open. More to take in, overwhelming almost. Also more to keep your attention outside of yourself. Whereas in the dark, like at night with your eyes closed before bed, you think inward into yourself, with lack of senses outside to keep your attention selfless. Hibernating in the winter, adding to and bolstering your ego, to warm up in the spring and let it all go in the summer.