The Weather Report

       "I get the news I need from the weather report. . . " It's come to the time of year when I am afraid to check the weather report: snow, ice, sleet, frozen rain, snow, ice, sleet, frozen rain, repeat. 

    I am desperate for the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, for the the scent of freshly mowed grass, for the flowers to dance in the spring breeze. 

    I, like many people, suffer with seasonal affective disorder, and until I experienced it for myself, I thought it was a made-up disease. It is not. It is as real as it gets. I've found my SAD to be worse this year than ever before, and I am sure there is a connection among COVID fatigue, SAD, and the feeling that this pandemic will just never end. I, like many people, miss my family, my friends, my freedom. 

      As I was leaving for work this morning, I noticed that the air was not as cold as it was yesterday, that the icy patches on the walk were slowly melting, and that my nose was not turning into an icicle. I tested the frigidity of the morning air with a deep exhale, but I could still see the white puffs of my breath. 

    Black-capped chickadees are native to our area, and there were two of them warbling on a bush near the porch as the sun's rays touched the eastern sky.  I stopped to watch them swoop and swirl around the stick-like branches. It seemed as if they were teasing each other. 

Maybe they were teasing me- these little messengers chirping the weather report: "Spring is on her way!"