We keep the curtains closed in winter and we keep the blankets piled on and on top of blankets we encourage two ginger cats to add their warmth. Outside the window it is a strange day full of sunshine, singing birds, and melting snow. This is not February — at least not the kind of February I used to know. The longest-shortest month with cutting winds and snow that had crusted and cracked under your boots. Imbolc comes not through any sign of spring but because of the hope of a sign of spring. In February it is easy to imagine a long darkness that never ends.
The mud used to come in March, but this muddy February is peculiar — and I suspect we’ll have many more peculiar muddy Februaries to come. What we can hope for is an earlier start to the gardens. As our winter shrinks in Wisconsin so too do shorelines shrink in Louisiana. But we’ll try not to think about that. We’ll also try not to think about the jumping worms, and the zebra mussels, and the coywolves, and all the other hybrids and aliens that signal the coming apocalypse.
Outside the window is fear. Inside is anxiety.
Prompt from thinkwritten: “Outside the Window.”