Springtime in Central Park (coming soon, we hope). Photo: Eleanor Foa Fine Art Photography www.eleanorfoaphotography.com

NEVADA CITY, CALIFORNIA Welcome to spring! The sky is blue, the grass is green, birds are singing, and it’s warm enough to take off your sweater. The plum trees are dropping their petals; the dark pink crabapple blooms are half-open; the pears are ready to burst; the real apple blossoms are still tight on their branches, biding their time. Wherever I walk in my yard there’s a sound of bees, which I take as a very good omen, since bees have been so hard-hit by disease and climate change in recent years.

If you’re a person who likes sex, spring is your season. Tulips erupt out of the ground like you-know-what, and then unfurl their gorgeous lapped petals to reveal tantalizing inner views like you-know-what-else. Every living thing is calling out for attention: Look at me! Come over here! Smell this! Touch right there! Meanwhile the breeze has warmed and the air is softer, waking our skin to sensation again after those long months swathed in polypropylene or wool.

The bombardment of sensory input is enough to make anyone swoon, and that’s exactly what it’s designed for: Spring is nature’s way of keeping the game going. Replicate that DNA! Pollinate those trees! It’s like an orgy, but out in public where everyone can enjoy it. There’s a reason they call it Spring Fever, too: it’s definitely catching. I’m surprised that more people aren’t making out in front of City Hall and removing each others’ clothes in the middle of Broad Street. If we were in Paris (don’t you wish we were in Paris?), there would certainly be more kissing. The people of that city spend a fantastic amount of time locking lips with each other. But I digress. Spring wants you to digress. Little breezes waft past and you follow them to see what that lovely scent is — daphne? lilac? jonquil?

If you had told me when I was young that people of my current age thought about sex in the springtime, I would have been horrified. More than that, I just wouldn’t have believed you. My world view, like that of many young people today, capped sexual activity at about age 38. This is slowly changing, of course, with the advent of our sexy President and First Lady, who actually nuzzle in public, and as Brad and Angelina get older. But the idea that lots and lots of people in their 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s are not just thinking about sex but are actually having it is slow to be absorbed by the younger generation. That’s okay with me—they should be thinking about their own sex lives and knuckling down to the work of procreating, not wondering what their grandparents’ friends are up to in bed.

In springtime, their grandparents’ friends probably aren’t in bed anyway, they’re having sex in meadows or the spacious back seats of late-model Lincolns with the windows rolled down to let in some fresh air. They’re being egged on by the sound and smell and taste and texture of every other living thing.

So what are you doing reading this post? Hop to it!