Field of bleak


You’ve all heard it before: “I think October’s my favorite month. The leaves just start to turn and there’s that crispness in the air…” Or else, “I dig June, it’s finally hot, break out the shorts, hit the beach…” And there’s always a few saps who claim they “luuuuvvv December because it’s soooo festive…”

No one claims to love February.

Because February is a parasitic month. It should be the time to look forward: “hey, we survived 3 months indoors, just 30 more days til spring!” But normal people don’t think that way.

February is the month that won’t end. It’s dead yellow grass, speckled with brown dirt patches, and naked trees as far as the eye can see. Nothing grows but mud, and it feels like nothing ever will.

I know, it’s the same every year — this interminable shade of bleak. Then overnight everything greens up, like spring pulls an all-nighter, frantically slapping buckets of paint on everything before the sun comes up.

I just can’t wait for that day. Vile February, be gone!

Mel, who accompanied me to take photos, is less traumatized by February’s cruel, cold grasp. Or else, he just keeps it on the inside.