It wasn’t winter in NJ, this pink trip to the crinkly land between Sacramento and San Fran. It was spring herself, loaded down with armfuls of flowers. Stems and trumpets of flowers so large they could be armfuls of luminous brooms, their whiskers on fire… the woman shushing and cooing the flames with a calm moue. It’s when the mouse ran by under her skirts that she threw the brooms into the air, her arms helpless, open as the arc of a lawn sprinkler. The rainbows inside the waving spray, it seems, following the sprinkler arm, become visible only now, in memory, as I hold in my palm this souvenir crystal ball I got last minute at the airport, chuckling at the little flitter of snow inside swirling around the fat sea lion with the striped ball tipped up on his cold nose.