If March comes in like a lion, she’ll go out as a lamb.
Well this year, March definitely made her appearance as a lion.
It seems the wind whips across the pasture with greater force than in town – all that wide- open space, I guess.
I knew it was going to be nasty out there, because when I turned down the lane, I was greeted by shrouds of white caught on the fence and flying parallel with the ground. They’ve been trapped there since mid-winter when another ferocious wind set them loose from wherever they’d lived previously.
Charles Dickens and his ghosts of Christmas present, past and future crossed my mind as I made my way toward my two old sweeties.
By March I’m sick of the wind.
It’s worn me down.
Worn me out.
We haven’t had much snow this winter. Nor has it been all that cold.
Not like it could have been, though I also acknowledge that here in northern Colorado, winter isn’t quite finished with us.
March is often our snowiest month.
I think I’d gladly take more snow, if it could come without the wind.
My eyes sting, my skin feels gritty, and my attitude goes to hell in a hand basket when I’m battling the wind.
You’d think having grown up in Wyoming, I’d take wind in my stride. Maybe I did at one time. But as I’ve gotten older, my tolerance for wind has diminished.
I could do nicely with much less of it.
How about you?