Warm weather. Blue skies. Toss and catch. Light jogs. Green grass. The scent swirling in the breeze redolent of something like childhood and innocence.
I mean, really, what an awful time of year. A wig, Jose? A wig? What is this, dress-up hour?
(Slowly but surely, we're getting into the spirit. There'll be fewer posts like the previous one, in which a senior writer of a venerable establishment was called an "asshat," and more pictures of smiling people who have plenty of reasons to smile.)