March has gotten into April. Out of some northern nostril streams the wind, sleek and chill, slashing crocuses. Two days ago I wore shorts and cursed the humid prognostication of another subtropical summer. Now the message from north Texas plains is that winter is not happy with her usurpation. The sky is gray as impending snow, stalking the Gulf for any hint of heat. My wooden sash windows rattle in the revisionist wind-- I light the space heater. Whatever men imagine, spring is no gradual greening but a violent compromise between solstices.
C. E. Chaffin