When the spring weather finally hits, I like to open the windows and sweep the front porch clean of winters’ dirt and debris. I linger on my way from the car to the house to admire birdsong. Even the most common sparrow twitter holds a spell of wonder over me. And when the adorable chickadee wakes me up on a warm April morning I just sigh, roll over, and take comfort in knowing that the world is in working order; the flora and fauna are returning to life after a long winter of rest. I plan gardens, I make lists and draw diagrams and rope off parameters. I wallow in my dreams, in the thoughts of all I can accomplish now that the weather is turning. I tell myself – in the delirious, drug-like exhilaration of crocuses and butterflies – that it couldn’t possibly take more than an afternoon to clean out the shed.

And the whole time, in the back of my mind, I know damn well that, come July, when that same chickadee screeches out its piercing whistle at the very crack of dawn and, come the sweltering August heat, when the garden needs tending and the mosquitos are sucking my blood, I will rue this day.

Oh yes, I will rue this day and all of my big plans. An afternoon to clean the shed? You were dreaming buddy. Try a week of grueling labor. And then, what to do with all the rusty old crap I pulled out of there? Now I need to make a trip to the dump. Christ, this is really ballooning.

I could have been sleeping and relaxing and drinking and reading and sleeping and drinking all this time and now the summer is practically over and I squandered it doing all this work. What the fuck was I thinking?  Must have been spring fever. Damn you, glorious springtime, why must you be so deliciously intoxicating?

Stupid spring.