Sprung

It was Spring, at least I think it was - just a week ago or something. And then something went snap (or maybe Sproing!) and it's summer and the mercury is creeping past 90 already.

I can't tell what happened because I'm pretty sure April lasted at least eight weeks, possibly ten or so, but I'm not sure how we suddenly ended up in May already.

Without any warning at all (okay, except for the flashing lights. Also the sirens. And the loud honking noises) it's suddenly semester end and finals are looming for those so afflicted (of the faculty variety as well as students. Haunted young things are lurking in the halls clutching grubby print outs of essays and practicing the particular voice-hiccup that will express just how heartfelt is their sorrow over missing seven lectures and a mid-term. One by one PhD candidates have come in, white faced and shaking, to stare down a sympathetic (yet no less terrifying) set of faculty and explain just why they thought the world needed one more in-depth look at Romantic Poetry. Instructors of various ilk have the weary set to their shoulders seen only in those who must read 60 earnest 10 page papers stating the totally obvious as though it were entirely fresh and new.

One more week, and summer is officially here.