On Valentine’s Day the wind chill is fifteen below and I refuse to set foot outside. It’s just me and the cats in the house, hissing at each other. I don’t even change out of my pajamas. There’s probably some kind of clinical term for this, I think as I put more butter on my baked potato. Then it begins: the improbable sweet song of a bird determined, while clinging to a frozen branch in a high wind, to attract a mate. For an hour, I manage to shut up and listen.
snowmelt another word I’ve forgotten
Red Dragonfly 