Today is awash in cirrus clouds, pale blue sky peeping shyly from between the delicate cover. Birds flutter to and fro, building nests and squabbling with the neighbors. Squirrels are everywhere, digging up the remnants of the winter's hoard. The breeze is mild and playful, flirting with my hair as I sit on the back steps and frown.
What's wrong with this picture? It's the very embodiment of a perfect spring day, isn't it? Well, that's what's wrong. It's February 1st! It's winter still. I know it's winter still. My calendar has a photo of snow on it. It's winter until March 1st, darn it. Why doesn't Nature understand this?
All my life I have held to the notion of four seasons. Spring is March, April, and May. That's how it worked where I grew up, that's how it works in books, and that's how it's meant to be. But noooooo, not in the South. They can't wait to shake a leg and start having spring indecently early. You know why, of course. It's because the summers are so long. They have to fit in spring in February because, barring a freak snowstorm or so in March, they'll be wearing shorts and sunhats by April and they won't stop until October. If then. I saw a little girl wear shorts yesterday. Sheesh.
This is just not right, I tell you. My cats are gamboling in the new grass. My dog is lying on her back in the sun like a shameless hussy, legs sprawled at ridiculous angles. Everything's chirping, budding, or gurgling. I feel so out of sorts. I really like things to go according to plan. It comforts me to think of the seasons in a neat geometry. It's tidy. It's reliable. It's...um, not very natural, come to think of it.
Oh, hell. Maybe I'll go make some iced tea.