The first week in March, lake ice looks ashen gray; icicles are shorter now than just a few weeks ago. Winds in the morning are warm and raw, and raw and raw. You can smell things outside for the first time in many months. Months stop ending in 'ary but it's gonna be windy time pretty soon. I'm driving to work with sunlight and I'm driving home in sunlight. Just saying sunlight, feels good. Pussy willows burst. Chickadees are fee-be-ing. In the yard where the months of plowed road salt melted first, a robin is hopping over frozen ground and I wonder what he will find to eat. The snow banks along my driveway are solid ice and they look real dirty. One rain in the next two weeks will wash this mess away, hopefully, for almost seven months. When the second week rolls around, oh man, do I have spring fever. The Ides are pulling and pushing me in one direction I really want to go. I'm trying to find my windbreaker. I haven't worn gloves in three straight days. The sunlight is bright - hurt your eyes bright - and I stop looking up, but then I hear geese. So I gaze into the sky watching them wing north. People are walking again late in the afternoon along my road, some are holding hands. My boat bow is prodding through the last remains of a leaf-littered snow drift. With one warmer, windy day, I will have a piece of water craft again. When the third week of a mushy March ends, my yard look messy. All the melting left the messing. I thought my thermometer was broken; the red line was still up over forty above, even after dark. And now I notice the sky doing some spring cleaning - the Milky Way has been put away. Once inside, I have to close the windows that have been open, one day in a row. I sit to read in twilight. Once again in the local newspaper, I read an ad for help wanted. Hiring summer fishing guides at a remote lodge and it makes me feel young. The ad sez to bring your positive attitude and you'll get the experience of a lifetime. Those places don't pay much in money, but you get a lifetime of memories. I skip through all the seed catalogs. Now in the last week of March, I crawl into bed and finally four down quilts is three too many. The trout whisperer