This last weekend, the temps rose to just above freezing. Trudging through the snow became difficult as it turned into quicksand. Boots sunk through the muck instead of staying atop that frigid solid white. My ears winced whenever I heard the words "January thaw". I averted my eyes as each icicle, one of dozens, slid from the roof of the house and to their swampy death.
Being a creature of winter, I don't like warm anomalies.
The weather has swung back. I can walk atop the snow once more. There's an icicle graveyard along the side of my house and a slick spot just off the curb.
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