I have to say after a typically too-long Spokane winter, with Sun on my skin for the first time since November, the question of whether I am correct about the identity of the little yellow flowers that alone have the nerve to grace these beleaguered slopes with the bright glorious vibrant color of the Sun itself, seems beneath worthiness. Which is a mouthful.

In short, who cares?

Sure, I know they’re not “really” Buttercups. Their proper unofficial name is “cinque-fois” if we must divert our attention from glory to precision, or imprecision if the matter is to be set right. But must it? Must it really?

Again I cry my plea for grace and mercy: Who cares? I say. What does it matter in the center of Spring’s first full day if I get the name right or no. It matters not at all I say and I daresay you, my reader know it too. And so do I.

It’s the first respectable day of Spring and I declare here and now while I’m still full of unmanageable joie de vivre that I am done with “right” in all its manifestations.

Now I must go and take pictures.