Spring sprang again on Sunday.

In Brookville, where we live, one might have been forgiven for thinking it was still winter. Gray, gloomy, snowy was the forecast. Yuck.

In northwestern Florida, where we were, they have a different definition of “mostly cloudy.” The winds along the Gulf of Mexico move the clouds along at speeds far faster than those that nudge the gray masses east from Ohio or southeast from the Great Lakes. So “mostly cloudy” included, last Thursday, about four hours of horizon-to-horizon clouds. The rest of the day was what we call “mostly sunny,” in a sky-is-blue sort of way.

Along with that wonderful blue sky, Floridians must deal in late March with “no-see-ums” and yellow flies. Both species bite. The gnats, midges, sand flies, whatever they are called, inflict painful bites. We have an equivalent in the black flies that swarm along our waterways in midsummer. Both species seem to have an affinity for people’s heads, eyes and noses, probably seeking moisture.

The yellow flies aim lower. They sneak up on exposed ankles, and sometimes-unexposed ones. They will slip up past socks and inside pants cuffs to find exposed flesh.

The bites itch for days, an itch strong enough to wake me from a sound sleep.

Those same winds that whisk the clouds away seem to dissipate the humidity of March in Florida. Year-around residents tell me, however, that in July and August, nothing removes the humidity.

In midsummer, I’ll take west-central Pennsylvania.

But I did enjoy a late-winter sojourn in the Sunshine State.

Ours is a laid back version of being snowbirds. We do not swim. We do not rush frenetically from manatee sightings to alligator exhibits.

We mostly “be” instead of “do.”

Oh, we see manatees by the hundreds at the discharge eddies of a power plant near Tampa. We see alligators by the dozens at the diked trails through the cypress and saw grass swamps of the St. Marks Federal Wildlife Refuge.

But we do so slowly.

We are not accompanied by children, grandchildren or friends. So we can amble if we choose.

My wife and I are usefully divergent about that. She loves long bike rides, brisk walks, and beachcombing expeditions at low tide. I love short bike rides, walks that include plenty of time to stop and smell the flowers, and sitting.

“You can observe a lot just by watching,” said the late baseball star Yogi Berra. Berra, Mark Twain, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert are, in my view, America’s wisest philosophers.

I concur with Yogi. I love to sit, or stand, or lean against a tree or a wall.

I watch people. I watch the ocean. I watch the Apalachicola River bay. I watch clouds, birds, fish, gators, palm fronds.

Sitting still and watching, I tell my wife, is doing something.

Sitting still and watching with my eyelids drooping or closed entirely, I tell her, is a sign of deep philosophical musings.

“You are napping!” she replies.

Again, Yogi: “I take a two-hour nap between one and four.” You had to love the man.

A week before spring sprang, I had to reset clocks.

These days, a satellite takes care of that chore for our computers, cellphones and tablets. Neither of us wears wristwatches, so that leaves the kitchen clocks that adorn the stove, microwave and coffee maker, plus the battery-operated or land-line timepieces in each room.

I have no idea why we, and most Americans, have so many clocks. Each clock uses a tiny bit of electricity, but there are upwards of 200 million homes, plus a gazillion businesses, in the country. En masse, those clocks consume considerable energy, and for what?

For most of my adult life, I have been able to guesstimate what time it is to within 15 minutes of the actual time. I have no idea whether that is a talent or a subconsciously learned skill. But it does suggest that I do not need anything more than the “dumb” cellphone I carry, plus one battery-operated wall clock in case of cell tower failure.

Yet we have … what? Seven clocks by my count, and one more in each of our three motor vehicles.

At home, this is probably due to our need to go somewhere or do something at an appointed hour.

In Florida, however, we had no appointed hours. Sure, some sights and tours happened at precise intervals. But if we didn’t get to the first one, we could always get to the next one … or not.

We did ride those bicycles almost every day. My wife would ride, on average, about twice as far as I did, perhaps 10 miles compared to my 5. Ditto for walks.

“I’ll stop here and sit,” I would say. “Meet me on your way back.” And she would, through the closing days of winter and the sproinging in of spring in warmish, dampish Florida.

Again, our philosopher Yogi: “It ain’t the heat. It’s the humility.”

Sproing! Ya gotta love it.

Denny Bonavita is a former editor at newspapers in DuBois and Warren. He lives near Brookville. Email: denny2319@windstream.net.