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It is, at last, feeling a bit springish. True, the grass is wet from rain and there's a distinct bite to the wind, but it's close enough for Ganymede, who has hardly stepped back inside since the sun came up. He's cut his hair short again, not even reaching his chin (for the outdoors make her feel that of course she is Ganymede, and would never ever wish to be anyone else) and he has, from necessity, a scarf and a hat but neither of these can slow him down. By evening, he's deeper in the woods than he normally goes, leaning up against a tree and looking up through the branches at the sky.