February

The groundhog said it would be bad. The groundhog has a bad habit of understatement. Winter comes in like a lion, stays like a lion, and goes out like a lion; and a groundhog is to blame. Or the weatherman. I like blaming the weatherman.

Ice covers everything like an uncomfortable transparent blanket. My opaque blankets beckon me to return to bed, and I wish I could acquiesce. I cannot use the weather, or the weatherman, or a groundhog, or a lion or anything else as a scapegoat.

It seems February is always this way and how it will probably remain.