Some people fall in love with seasons. They identify themselves as lovers of Winter, or Fall. I cling to the fickle spurts in between. When the season feels mixed up, weeks divided by warm wild winds, indecisive rain clouds and sudden, brittle cold streaks (today, at the park, our unguarded bones took note of the latter) With February here, riding the shrinking tales of winter it is hard to know how to dress your children. Hard to know how to adjust your mood, your plans, your music, your thermometer, etc. But in spite of uncertain weather, dreams grow brave and take flight. I've been dreaming again lately. First time in some time. Moody blues and worn out maps inking my brain, unmarked places to trek by car, outgrown visions of sitting in a small old house in downtown Orange listening to Anne Sexton and other pretty graveled poets reading their works in the dark by candlelight. A moment in time when we were, for a second there, unclothed "real" romantics - remember Todd? And so too are these sporadic days of "almost spring." Where the season has yet to commit to any solid expectations spun to front our weekly forecast.