Here I lie. The two
hundred and thirty-fourth day of winter in the year of our Lord two thousand
and seventeen. The wind screams and the
horizon disappears as icy shards of glass cause my squinting eyes to shut
tightly against the assault. Chin
pulled deep into chest, I hang my head and hunch against the bitter assault of endless winter.
The long-awaited thaw, rivulets of melted snow, dripping
tree branches, twittering birds, and newly minted young of all types have
failed to appear this year. I remain
locked in winter’s vice-like embrace.
Hope falters and dies.
But wait! What is this?
The smell of barometric pressure rising? The melting of snow beneath
frost-bitten paws? The chirping of
twitterpated chickadees and honking of homecoming geese? The stink of chlorine
in my water bowl courtesy of spring run-off water treatment? Have my handlers
forgotten the life-saving necessity to layer up in their Michelin Man
disguises? Where are the little Sumo-wrestlers
rolled up in snow pants, scarves, and mittens? Have the cats lost their minds,
chewing the insulation between door and frame in order to escape the warm confines of home?
Is this a mirage? A delusion brought on by isolation and
mind-numbing boredom? If one were to interpret
the data as presented and jump to a conclusion of coming spring, would it all
disappear in the wink of an eye, breaking my heart as the north wind continues
its creaking and groaning?
I dare not risk it. Here I lie.
Waiting.
