Every year the day comes when I can no longer stand winter. This morning I looked out my bathroom window at the same old icicles, and they weren't pretty anymore. I was sick of winter. It always happens.
March is when enough old snow has accumulated to make walking difficult, especially in front of houses owned by people who never shovel. Instead of being fluffy and white, the snow has became hard-packed and speckled with junk: leaves, branches, garbage. When the streets are wet they're covered with black oily slush; when they're dry they're disfigured with huge psoriatic rings of salt. Birds tweet and squirrels come out of their trees even though they know better.
Every time I go out of doors, or come indoors, I need to go through the elaborate routine of bundling up or stripping off. Winter has already given us a few good snowstorms, which are at least worth looking forward to. My Safe-T-Salt bag is almost empty and it's hard carrying a full one home. More than anything else I want to see grass.
Do you hear me, Jack Frost? Finish your wine and your boring story and go home.