There’s a reason the song is called April in Paris. Not April in Maine. I’ve been sitting by crackling fires for hours, burning firewood with abandon because I won’t need to refill it until the fall. I finished reading The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman, the best novel I’ve read in ages, so good I skimmed it immediately upon completion. I ate a salad (mixed greens, mandarin orange segments, chopped tomatoes, sliced green olives, feta cheese, blush dressing) by the fire. The dogs were in and out a half-dozen times, mostly-blind Chelsey sniffing the ground and stepping tentatively to reacquaint herself with the terrain. The house is dark save for yellow firelight and white lamplight shining over my left shoulder.
Outside is the long transition from winter to spring. Shaded areas contain abundant snow, snow melt fills the low spots, the lake is covered with treacherous rotten ice. Leaving Boston this afternoon it was spring, arriving here early evening it was–Sprinter? Wing? A hybrid season that deserves its own name.