There is something disarmingly honest about a spring rain. It's not like a winter rain, dull, methodical, and clouded in a dense fog. It's intense, and the short burst where it lets its presence be known screams for your attention. Then, in the aftermath, the earth is refreshed. The shrubs and grass have a sparkle, like the eyes of a mischievous five-year-old. The damp ground gives forth the scent of renewal. The angelic twitter of birds permeates the air, and their innocent arias complements the melody that began with the pitter-patter and roar of the rain concerto. Finally, the sun is restored, and we are bathed in its glorious, golden glow: A glow that is pure, and declares that the momentary dark moment of clouds and thunder is over, and we have arrived. As you sit there, with your morning coffee, and you inhale the mix of the medium roast and the pollen and the spring air, you are invited to forget, to absorb the magic that is le printemps, and you whisper silently to yourself, This could not get any better.