We know it can’t last. It’s still February, and it always snows in March and April and sometimes even in May. We’ll take it, though, the hunks of ice shrinking and sliding off the roof into puddles that weren’t there yesterday, the rivulets from melting snow almost as loud as a rainstorm, pouring off every surface under the bright turquoise horizon. I level entire towns of slush with Gene Kelly kicks while whistling show tunes from musicals that haven’t been written yet. I dare the craven cold to show its pinched little face one more time, knowing it will tomorrow, when all this will be as if it had never been. The hell with tomorrow. Today it’s spring all day, as free as the sky, but only one per customer, thank you so very much. I close my eyes and pretend it’s raining.