The sky is overcast.
Rain, or something like it that is colder in a way that’s best not to acknowledge, is spitting down and the spring that seemed imminent just days before has blown away in the cold gusty wind.
Yet the howl of wind and wet is abruptly muffled as the door closes behind you. Replaced by a soft symphony of tiny peeps and a friendly ring of red light and warmth.
Baby chicks, delicate beings that defy everything about a cold spring day.
Tiny scraps of fluff proclaiming that spring is here.