Out of deference for the Long Winter that everyone east of the Rockies seems to have endured this year, I've avoided talking about how effing weird it was to live in northern California and have it be dry, sunny and seventy degrees through the entire month of January.
(At left: Facebook photo from a friend or illustration of the pioneers' winter hellscape? Why can't it be both?)
When the cherry blossoms exploded before February first, it was disquieting. The blooms frosted over the warm limbs of the trees and I read the Zadie Smith essay on mourning the seasonal markers that have disappeared in the swirling currants of new climates. And I wondered: What happens now?