He adds it to the ever-increasing list of things he has decided never to write about again. Before he lets it go forever, though, he feels compelled to move to the window, verify that Winter is, indeed, nearly at its end and that Spring (such as it is in these remote northern regions) is about to begin.
Through the glass, most of what he sees only confirms what the calendar already indicates. Despite several large patches of thinning mid-April snow, the ground is for the most part bare and still browned with last year’s dormant grass and dead vegetation. Everything is somewhere on the spectrum between somewhat soggy and downright flooded. Nothing is green, nor likely to be green any time soon.
He sees all this and reminds himself not to write about it. He reflects on this reminder for only a moment, then decides that it would, indeed, be prudent to jot down at least a couple of the most basic reasons for this self-imposed restriction.
Before he can do so, however, he changes his mind yet again and crosses list-making off his literary agenda (at least for the morning), sets his pen down on the windowsill, and settles for simply inhaling and exhaling whatever is left of April.
Posting Blindly for today’s pompt at The Daily Post.