And...action!
No one knows how to strike anymore. What happened to the anarchy of unfettered 1968-esque demonstrations, or the "glorious" Russian and French revolutions, or Women's Rights? Why, a century ago, "strike" would never have been referred to in the future tense.
And today? No longer is it "The workers went on strike", but "The teachers are scheduled to go on strike on Tuesday, and students are encouraged to leave their lectures on Wednesday in support". These days, unions must register with the police before they strike.
Not that I'm espousing rampant violence, as violence is really never the answer (unless, of course, the question is "What is the most self-defeating, foolish and pointless way to get your point across?"). But, christ. Scheduled disobedience. I don't know.
I awake to careless birdsong, sure. But the wind bit like sharks' teeth, and there was snow. While the frosty static cottoned down from those foreboding skies, whirling across the ground like white gauze, I irascibly retracted my claim that Spring was here, even as the frigid wind ripped the soundless words out of my mouth and carried them to warmer climates.
Come on, Spring, you're on. Lights, camera, and action. I want to see those wizened buds explode into exuberant blossoms.