And then I looked out the window and it was snowing again.

Last Friday, late afternoon: first I noticed the room getting colder. Then I heard the rain. O rain, I said out loud. Like weather was something you could roll your eyes at. At least I wore my boots today. When I looked again it had turned to snow.

And it's been like that through to this evening –– some snow, some rain, some wind, a little sun, then some cold. Every corner giving you a different treatment. 

This might be the first year I've thought about March being tough; usually it's February that breaks your heart, in its relentless psychic concussions, beating you down with rawness and darkness. Most years February is the Frankenstein that just won't die.

But this March has been the worst of all worlds –– not winter but not spring, still freezing and lifeless, no snow and all garbage. Last week, tidying things up before the girls came home from Florida(!), I scooped up a dead bird from the sodden backyard path. The corpse was immaculate, like the bird had just touched down from the sky and suddenly died. As if the ground was toxic or electrified.

Only one March day left. Once April arrives, I have three months left to my unpaid leave from my regular office job. There's tons of design work left to do, but I'd like to spend most of that three months making paintings. And by then perhaps it will finally be summer.

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