Finally, the last few cold days of Winter are here. I can actually hear the season choking on its own bleakness, gasping for breath while its overjoyed victims celebrate over its prone form. Parents urge their small children to kick the bastard Winter in his cold, bony neck now that he can't fight back with a sixty-below wind chill.

It's the only of the four seasons whose demise is unapologetically anticipated. Signs all around town count down the days until the ground has thawed enough to dig a deep enough grave in which to toss Winter: "11 10 9 8 Days Until Spring!"

Another sign is quite succinct, but efficiently implies so much more:

The stereotypical Down East stoicism melts away with the snow drifts, at least until the tourists arrive. It feels like being ten years old, facing a two-week wait for your trip to Disney World. Excruciating anticipation.

Goodbye, Winter. I think we need to see other seasons. I've met someone new, who's much more in tune with my needs. It's best for both of us. Don't cry, there are plenty of fish in the sea in the Southern Hemisphere for you. You can keep my wool jacket, it looks better on you anyway. Please don't call.

Oh, and I faked all those excited yells on the sledding hills.