Like many northerners do, we could fly away in winter to gawk at screaming-bright colours sizzling under a blazing tropical sun. But for Trevor and me both, flying is deadly torture. So we stay at home through the cold months thinking dark, drab northern thoughts. We do monk things. We read, we sleep, we walk, we work, we dream deeply. Sombre ascetic pastimes.

But then winter fades away before spring is ready. As anyone in a cold climate knows, the early spring thaw uncovers the moldy brown of poverty. Monks’ robe brown. Post-apocalyptic brown. It’s brown season.

And then, out of the thawing silence of this monastic season of brown, during the high-pitched piccolo-trill song of a varied thrush, the first extravagant glints of colour spurt up, and my writing turns florid.

We survived another apocalypse. Happy Spring!