Winter seems terminal today: snow almost gone from the moraine and trail ice already turned to a leaky bowl of melt water. If I lived in an information vacuum, I’d only know of this winter’s deaths and resurrections; how it grows with blizzards and shrinks in a following onshore flow. Since our house is wired to the grid, I know the truth. Winter flits between autumn and spring, riding the jet stream out of his Alaska home to places like Maine where he has worn out his welcome. He ignores our glacier’s need of snow but clogs Atlantic streets with it. Oh sure, winter visits the folks at home when it can, throwing around a little freeze here, a few inches of snow there, before returning to places where they feature him on the nightly news. Son, settle down and come home.