I didn’t feel it until this week: the antsy anticipation for spring to arrive. Up until now I’d been keeping my head down and shuffling along, bundled up and trudging through the endless unfurling of winter, in the hopes that when I looked up again spring would be on the horizon. I looked up too soon. We’re nowhere near it. The frigid temperatures, the wind, and the snow and sleet are instead indicative of a winter not content to take flight anytime soon. This refusal to yield has proven problematic in the past. Usually it results in some last-ditch-effort at sanity-retrieval in the form of a trip South. I am looking into it as I write this, because there is nothing here that appeals to me.
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