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I hear the sound of lawn mowers, interspersed with the silence of snow, putting on a scarf to scurry beneath the blazing sun, birds chirping but bitter wind blowing.  The color is heavy green without the accompanying smells of what nature intimates to be the season.  And I do not know if I really want to be outside for tea, or to walk, on any given day, or moment.

It has been like this since January.  I would rather have snow — or not — but not this in-between climate that feels foreign even to people who’ve lived in Buffalo all their lives.

It’s as if the New Year never really came, or crept in unannounced and is hiding it his room.  The death of a dear pet, Morris Pie, and on Easter (yesterday), has put me in a melancholy mood that seemed to be waiting just behind my shoulder for me since last year.  Life advice from my Father breathed some life into my hopes and self-motivation (is there really any other kind?), but even putting one foot in front of the other with deliberance finds parts of my mind uncontrollably elsewhere, fragmented.