Winter is losing its grip on St. Louis’s throat. Yesterday when I walked outside in the morning it was practically balmy—at least 40 degrees. I almost wept with gratitude. Then I promptly slipped on a patch of ice and gave myself a minor injury, proving that clumsy knows no season.
Spring, of course, is not here yet. But it’s coming. It’s hard to explain the feeling, the promise of it in the world. Usually, spring makes its promise during the January thaw. This year, however, the January thaw was apparently pre-empted by more harsh and wintry ass-kicking. Now, even though I know that winter isn’t over, I am equally confident that spring is coming.
It’s something about the quality of the mud, and the way the dogs act, and something about the birds. That, coupled obviously with the warming temperatures and lengthening days, is doing something to renew my will to live.
Hopefully it will also do something to kill the chocolate tapeworm I must be harboring. I’ve been craving chocolate in what I’m sure is my body’s way of releasing needed endorphins into my cold-addled brain. Fine, as long as my butt stays roughly the same size.
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