It’s warm without being sweaty–the kind of warm where you walk outside and notice that there’s no difference in the temperature, in a nice way. It’s sunny, but there’s just enough cloud cover to ward off glare. There’s a little breeze, bringing with it the smells of downtown small city: a cigarette, bus exhaust, sandwiches carried by a man and his daughter.
This is no day for class or work. This is a day for picking up fallen sycamore branches in the back yard, swinging them wildly, turning them into magic swords.