In a matter of hours, we have once again gone from squeak (of snow) to squelch (of mud). Winter ebbs and flows like a tide, though much less predictable. Winter swings like a pendulum, though more erratically. Winter breathes a bitter wind and a balmy breeze. Winter freezes and melts, freezes… and melts: The woodshed door is iced shut and the mosquitoes hatch in the warm cellar; The road is a polished rink and a deeply rutted muddy line; The clouds sing snow and cry rain. Beside the fire we shake our heads in worry and in the sunroom we bask with the cat.