67

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           67                                67
          67 67 67                      67 
          67         67                  67 
           67          67               67  
             67 67 67               67

    
It feels wrong. The snow is melting so fast, and the ground is still frozen, I now have a water garden. I may just have to go pick up some koi and lob them in to the lake, er, mulch.

Dear 67 -- I know you have no idea what you're doing, and I really want to ask you to stop, to go away. It's February. It's winter. I'm not ready. My blood hasn't transitioned. I'm like goldfish in a plastic bag, soaking in their knew home, the water temperature equalizing for a nice cozy transition. I feel my mouth making an "O" gasping for air, shocked by the moment. I want you 67, but you are nothing but a flirt and a showman, extra icing that makes the day almost too sweet. I may turn on the A.C.