March 11, 2008 Hamilton is subject to a strange weather pattern wherein we cycle through all four seasons on a weekly basis. There will be two feet of snow on the ground, then a day or two of bitter rain, followed up by a day of inexplicable heat, but, right before the snow finishes melting, another snowstorm. Then the last big rain came and it seemed the cycle was broken. The campus enters its soggy phase, when melting snow tag-teams with pebbling rain in a meteorological conspiracy to keep my poor socks wet. The ravine under the bridge that connects me with my diner chicken strips becomes a scaled-down reproduction of the Yangtze before the dam but after the pink dolphins. I imagine mice Noahs began their construction projects this week.
Then the rain ended and the drying began. The campus smelled like wet garments laid out on a radiator. The earthworms have yet to step forward, but my bird-feeder gets busier every day. Then, yesterday, my roommate Will tried to jump a few steps ahead. He propped the door open with the grill. The door wide-open, our room transformed into a veranda, brought to mind the mild weather at the year's beginning, and the accompanying outdoor reading, pick-up frisbee, and meat-charring. We beared it as long as we could, as if the open door could signal to the fractal patterns overhead our wants, then gave up and closed the airseal. We are ready for spring as soon as the world is.