March is

I don't know what March is in your neck of the woods, but here, March is 20 degrees below zero; a sheet of ice; a crust of snow; a dwindling fire; and a soft southerly breeze billowing sheets on the line; open windows; 62 degrees; 70s rock 'n' roll; a soggy, scattered wood pile; tax returns; a flighty old friend; remnants of dog poop from February, January, and possibly December; 40 degrees; a walk atop three feet of snow; mud; slush; snow showers; rain showers; dripping, plunking, trickling, gurgling, pooling, and freezing water; 53 degrees; suddenly sinking through snow up over your knee and pitching forward slightly but where are you going to go? you're trapped; a pause between songs; a skip in the record; a frisky north wind twisting sheets into knots; tattered brown leaves stirred up by a breeze; an old dog snorting gleefully as he rolls on his back atop a foot of crusty 7-grain snow; 48 degrees; sitting on the deck in the sun; the amazing return of evening light; a pull and a push and a nudge and a yank; birthdays (of some of my favorite people!); 37 degrees; talk of a St. Paddy's Day blizzard, no matter what the weather; flocks of chattering birds; meeting new neighbors; a recipe that goes: a little of this, a little of that; Ginger Rogers dancing with Red Skelton; onion rye bread, just for something different; a cautious walk of mincing steps; 17 degrees; a crack in the ice.