Late January in Minnesota. It's been a nice winter so far. Maybe because of the place I'm in, in life right now, I'm more acutely receptive to seeing the good in everything. I don't know. Anyway, I have this sense that all is right, and well, and wonderful. I'm not outside much, really. Haven't been sledding, snowmobiling, or even skiing this year. I'm content to tread my eliptical machine down in the basement of my warm house, rather than venture out for walks in the ice and snow and dark. I'd say I'm more than gettin' through. I'd say I'm happy. I'd say I'm very happy.

And I'm hungry too; for spring, for thawing and melting. For the first clear cold water at the edge of the lake. I'm craving birdsong, leaf buds, the first green shoots of irises, and God - almost too far away to dream of it - the smell of just-cut green grass... that sharp, sweet green scent of early summer which pours us over the waterfall edge of the first season into full blown summer here in Minny. Cabin weekends, and lakes, and warm rain sweeping across the water, thunderstorms at night, tackle boxes, and picnics, the crack of a baseball bat, a small town parade, campfires and marshmallows on a stick, weeds and wildflowers. Hot days when the asphalt in the city shimmers, nights trying to find a cool place on my pillow. Reading a good book late, late into the night. The deep dark expanse of sky, endless stars. The infinity of summer.

In the cold, silent, white slumber of winter, here in Minny, there's a promise.