That budded dogwood tree doesn’t care about daylight savings time. Go ahead. Move the clock, and it won’t make any difference. It’s going to do what it wants, and it probably thinks your national attempt to save a buck is silly. Even if it did gain or lose an hour, it’s been here before you got here and it’ll be here when you’re gone. Kind of like a human to a mouse. Or a mouse to a dragonfly.
In one month, those buds on those branches will be pink flowers, and I won’t be able to see the sky on the other side of it from where I’m sitting.
The last ray of sunset hits the dogwood. I watch it slip away. It’s so gradual that I can’t tell at all. But it’s happening. I know it. I’ve watched it happen before. And it’s going to happen again.