I love winter. I really do. I get all giddy in November...the ice starts forming, the flakes start falling, I start knitting scarves (the only item I can knit that doesn't result in a third arm hole, top-hat like tooks, and 6-toed socks), and McKinley's nose turns pink...apparently to celebrate Valentine's Day in style. And here in Montana...the last few winters have been lackluster...to say the least. When you only get two powder days all friggin' year...you'd better make damn sure you didn't decide to go to work that day. However this year...the snow gods smiled upon the Big Sky state broadly and dumped heaps and heaps of fluffy stuff all winter long, and all spring long, and now...all summer long?!?!?! I know beggers can't be choosers. I know whitewater enthusiasts are rapidly growing akin to the Joker from Batman with their smug smiles...daydreaming wistfully about pumping rivers and ginormous rapids. I know this is what winter in Montana is SUPPOSED to be like. But, I also know it's May 1 and I'm risking frostbite by insisting on wearing my flip flops. I've been a firm believer...once you go flip flop you don't go back. Grin and bear the freak June snowstorms, blustery May rainshowers, frosty September mornings. However, this year, I've already lost three toenails to recreational pursuits and one ill-situated rocking chair, and I'd rather put off risking frostbite to my already tender toes. So...I'd appreciate it if you all joined me in a little spring haiku, inspired by a certain vagabond friend.
Cold smoke brings care bear puke
skis floating, crashing, grinning, hooting.
F&*#@$^ snow in my sandal.
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