We had fallen for the lure. A day before the Vernal Equinox, there were plenty of inklings of spring. The robins, even before this, had grown plump and plentiful and were everywhere seeking and pulling plump worms clean from the earth. The Pileated Woodpeckers were bashing their heads against the locust trees and, in the next instant, tearing down the mountainside like some blood-crazed kamikazes. Even the lowdown rabid dogs scarcely bellowed but were resting their convulsing lungs.
But by Sunday, the forecast had changed and, with it, our resolve. Who knows how many inches have fallen since and how hard the bracing wind has blown? Who knows how long the power will stay on before it flickers on and finally off? Who knows whether our wood will last, our ready supply of candles and gallons of water be enough?