Good grief.
It's so February.
There's always this point in early February or late January where things warm just a bit. The snow melts just a bit, the driveway is clear, and no matter how much you know in your mind there's still a couple months left of winter, your body cozies up to the idea and lets down its guard. Gives it entrance.
Early in the winter, the cold is bracing. Cozy. Uniting. Stew and chili and hot chocolate with friends and family. And the adversity and challenge of the winter is hearty and vigorous. Wood is chopped for heat. A fire blazes in the fireplace while the wind howls and the snow drifts.
And then there's a brief break in the winter. The gray clouds part. The sun comes out. The weather warms to above freezing. It's balmy. You start to think the ice fishermen are crazy.
And the guard is let down as the body does what it does: takes sensory information and anticipates what's next: warmer, then warmer, then warmer, then summer, then colder again.
But no. The winter is still in full swing, and the snow comes back and dumps all over your driveway again, which maybe you've lost the determination to keep it pristine and well shoveled. Throughout the neighborhood the sound of snow blowers is less common, even though the snow is more, and more people are resigned now to driving through compacted ice ruts in their driveways.
And all around town wood piles are dwindling. What were great, massive walls of oak and maple are now depleted and short. You start out in October being conservative with the wood, knowing it has to last, and by early January you're throwing wood into the fireplace at a rapid pace, knowing the house needs to be warm.
And by February you start to look nervously at the wood pile.