May is the most fickle month. It could as easily snow as be 80 degrees, and it just might do both within the same week. Such is life in the North Country.
The clouds are low, and metallic, and the wind is snapping at the flagpoles. I’d like to sit and tell stories, but they are as hard to catch today as silvery fish, slipping out of sight beneath the lead waters of a lake.
Instead I’ll leave you this, and dream of summer.