For about three weeks, driving to work had been pretty nice. Each morning it was light out a little bit earlier than the day before. I commute in the early morning hours. I leave the house about 6:15 and get to work around 7. About the time that the ground goes from being a frozen tundra covered by ice-crusted snow to just being a soggy mess, the sun peeks out a little early and I'm not driving in pitch blackness. At first I have a freak-out every morning, feeling like I must be running incredibly late because the light is so unfamiliar. About the time I grow accustomed, Daylight Savings Time hits. We're back to black this week.
The path to spring is a sort of game. First the groundhog has his fun, teasing that he may be shadow-free. He's not, of course. He's like a middle-aged Italian man; Punxsutawney Phil perpetually has his five o'clock shadow hanging around. The week or so before DST is simply another tease -- spring is on its way, but not graspable. You've got to really want spring to arrive, to be almost on the verge of giving of hope and accepting that winter's going to hang 'round forever. As Morrisey may say, you just haven't earned it yet, baby.
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