February, that capricious tease.
It's been unseasonably warm here. Usually, February is the point in the year where I'm overjoyed at the high for the day being over 35 degrees for the first time in months. Where I stand in awe at the appearance of blue skies and obsessively search for patches of sunlight to sit in while I rock back and forth in the fetal position and say to myself, It will be okay. Just a few more weeks. You'll feel at least somewhat alive again soon.
This year, February has given us days that reached 70 degrees, no sweat. Well, actually, I did sweat. That's my point.
I'm not sure what to make of it. On the one hand, I'm ecstatic about all of the sunlight and the lack of need for me to scrape my windows in the morning while my bones ache from the cold. But on the other hand, I'm waiting for the catch.
Like drought and/or famine and/or late summer blizzards.
And also, oddly enough, I feel as if Winter and I didn't get to say a proper goodbye. But that's just like me, really, to come to appreciate something just as it slips away. It makes me glad that I took these grainy photos on a late-night, solitary walk in December. It was snowing, just barely. My neighborhood took on that magical quiet only snow can bring. I wanted to capture the way the street lights illuminated the naked tree branches against the backdrop of snow clouds that looked like a giant pot of cream in the sky.