Every year I’ve been here in the mountain bunker there is a time in February that loudly announces the End of Winter. A week or more of balmy nights, days in the mid-70s, bright sunshine. Might as well plant the garden.
And every year I’ve been here that False Spring is jerked away, often with a blizzard and a major run on the firewood pile.
It’s happening again. Oh, Lord, make me strong.