I confess. I wrote three or four pages of a Darger and Surplus story today and then played hooky. I went to the Morris Arboretum, fool that I am, looking for spring.
And I found it. There among the austerely beautiful and leafless trees were drifts of crocuses, demure clusters of snowdrops, dense gatherings of winter aconites, hellebores, and the occasional deludedly optimistic clump of daffodils. The weather was warm and there were people drifting through the arboretum looking happy and a little stunned.
And it's still the middle of February.
Which means that the next few weeks are going to break my heart.
But what the heck. It's a small price to pay for an afternoon of faux spring.