The peepers got to peeping with conviction. Crab apple trees trees started to blossom– fat white flowers. Car windows were cranked down, leaving an audio patchwork of songs in all genres as they passed. Shorts, T-shirts and iced coffees– I milked the week of summer-in-March along with the rest of them.
|Sleeping Beauty, Lake George|
I also realized that I have seriously underestimated the intimacy my emotional health shares with sunshine. Lying on the top of the mountain, getting a jump start on the short's tan– I felt like I had lumbered out of a cave, blinking and winking in the heavy sun. So disoriented, so happy. I had been dealing with a sort of light dehydration.
Come down hope! it's not safe up there! We're back to 40 degrees, topped off with a bitter wind. The poor peepers are turning into popsicles. The petals have been blasted off the trees. And the heart gets so heavy to carry when it's cold. March was a bit cruel this year, though it was true to her character–– she came in like a lamb. Can't say I wasn't warned.
But, Spring won't be around for much longer. Keep busy– Run.* Work. Read. Time passes.
And I keep things in perspective: this is all probably worse for Bingley, he can't wear nice vests. Plus, along with the cold weather, a new instrument has been added to the family. He doesn't like either very much... at all.
Think NASCAR race. With Tonka trucks.