Spring thrums. The vibration wakes me in the night: not rain, not wind, just a sudden jolt of life, a pulse that lifts me out of bed to watch the window, where the lights of passing cars on the highway strobe softly across the trees. In the morning, the foreground has gone green, all the field and marsh and willows, green. The mountains loom bare still, streaked with snow even, still. The birds sing louder than the highway can growl, but not louder than the fly slapping herself against the windowpane.