I hate to remove my attention from the object demanding attention in the absolute hostility of the bitter cold, but the cold never comes to me without coming to me as the hot weather does, with flashes in the memory of the opposite. In summer I dream of falling snow and frozen streets. In winter I often dream of the languor of warm weather, of summer nights so full of sounds which are the rustling of life in all the world. Curious how the seasons intermingle themselves.
The worst part about the cold is the absence of rain, for I love rain. Rain is the glory of the fall and of the spring. And summer is the armpit of the year because in this arid climate it is often rainless. My wife has on her desktop a picture of Shingle Creek, in green and in the rain. It fills me with longing for something far away, like I am filled with longing to travel. Strangely, the picture was taken in, of all the months, July.