Eager to give winter the boot

I threw myself into deep snow on Saturday and lay there for 20 minutes in the silence of my neck of the woods.
I had just finished snow blowing, and I was tired and once again drained of any enthusiasm for winter. In fact, I’d had a run in with my snow blower—known in these parts as “Little John”—when he knocked me down while I had the machine in reverse.
Thank heavens for the automatic shut-off when I let go of the handles or I’d have been a real mess.
The knockdown got me really crabby for a few minutes. I hated the world and the world hated me. Some choice expletives flew out of my mouth to nobody listening.
I’d also filled my brainless quota that morning when I forgot to put down the garage door. Then not paying attention, I walked by with “Little John” full out and blew half of the yard’s snow into the garage.
I had a “Yosemite Sam” fit and so decided to seek sanctuary in a snowbank and be grateful for some good stuff. I rarely get outright angry anymore and I didn’t like the feeling—and needed a karmic rescue.
I was flung out like a discarded puppet in the snow, perfectly still and uttering many a “thank you” out loud to the Universe, when I saw a pair of ravens flying overhead. One of the black birds spotted my carcass and veered off its path, gliding in slow circles down, down, down to get a better view of what it thought might be a tasty morsel.
I actually expected it might land nearby, and I was ready as rain to jump up and scare the feathers off the winged beast if it tried to peck my eyes out like a scene from “The Birds.”
Luckily for Mr. Raven, it decided to join its buddy that already had flown across the field and disappeared.
I laid there a few more minutes until the cold seeped into my ski pants and dropped my core body temperature enough to stir me to rise up and head for the house and a nice cup of tea—all the while searching the immediate grounds for any sign or suggestion that spring was in the forecast.
As I drew closer to the house, I heard Bonnie Raitt’s sultry voice flow out of the stereo and through my mind, and I hailed her song to the harbingers of spring, “I Got You On My Mind,” hoping the magic of my words would hurry Mother Nature along.
Old frozen dog poop, unmasked and shredded by “Little John,” lay about the yard like an old smelly friend as if to say, “Just wait, I’ll let you know when spring has arrived.”
Touché, “Dot.”
All I know for sure is that March 20 is fast approaching and at that dawn, even if it is snowing like the dickens, I am going to stand up and cheer, “Spring is here!”