Sometimes we thought it was and sometimes we thought it wasn't. But now that there are finally Bermuda shorts on the streets, mud on the ground and athletes on the fields, we can be certain that Spring is here.

Now the spikes can rip across the wet soil and oars can slash the choppy waves. At last muscles can hurt after an afternoon of rugby and lungs can ache after hours of lacrosse. The discus and the javelin slice through somehow cleaner air and the ping of the tennis court seems a truer sound as the air turns warmer.

For the less ambitious and more poetic, the traditional banks of the Charles have become softer and greener, or perhaps it is the atmosphere that has become more relaxing and more colorful. A few authors with typewriters and beards peck and hunt for a minute, then close their eyes and listen for five. Touch-tackle games flourish only to pause when the refreshing pinks and powder-blues float by.