About three weeks ago, a furry rodent residing in Pennsylvania predicted, in the absence of being scared away by his shadow, an early spring. Let's be honest, those of us shuttered inside by one of the most intense snow-storms known to the great state of Oklahoma (and those outside of the state also receiving the brunt of said blizzard) were a little skeptical of our friend Punxsutawney Phil. Spring didn't so much appear to be on the horizon from where we were sitting, bundled on the couch gorging ourselves on an overabundance of readily available entertainment provided by our Netflix subscription. No sir, it almost seemed winter had just gotten started.
And yet, I've begun to wonder if that easily-frightened little vermin wasn't on to something. Not days after the second round of the storm blew threw, we donned short sleeves while the final piles of snowflakes melted into the grass. Today we enjoyed the first thunderstorm of the season along with the endearing twittering (the natural kind, not the technological sort) of birds as they greedily hunted the soggy soil for unearthed worms. As I enjoyed the warmth, streaming through our open windows, of the brightening day while the clouds rolled away, I sighed. Spring, it would seem, is upon us already.
Then, suddenly, I felt a certain chill through those same opened windows. And by the darkened hour of night, a (fully-zipped) coat was necessary to ward off the bite of these 36 degrees.
Really, winter? Is it gonna be like that?
Sorry, Phil, looks like we're going to have to wait a bit while this battle between the seasons plays out.