Spring on the land like an itch.

April. Spring was on the land like an itch. The whole countryside seemed to be scratching itself awake - lazily, luxuriously, though occasionally scratching so hard its nails hit bone, that old cold calcium that lies beneath our tingles. Tiny frogs, raked into alertness, were being scratched from much and mud. Tiny buds as bright as blisters, were being scratched from hardwood. The trees themselves, as juiced on sap as Tanuki ever was on booze (although the trees had a great deal more dignity), were scratching long blue notes from the sky.

[Tom Robbins, Villa Incognito, p. 5]