….[T]he icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say….
“….pitchers and catchers arrive next week!” One of us, who happens to hate cold weather, also happens to live in upstate New York—that’s right, bad planning—where, at the moment of composition, it is a biting 4 degrees below zero with churlish wind gusts of 30 miles per hour. And the moment before the moment of composition, the goddamn dog decided he wanted to go out. And he—the Birchwood Brother, we mean, not the dog, who was well insulated to begin with, and on whom the Birchwood Consort had inflicted a cute pink doggie sweater with his (we mean the dog’s, not the Birchwood Brother’s) initial–accordingly shrank with cold. But was he disheartened? Did he, upon thawing out, reach for the Liquid Plumber and end it all? No, because he was thinking contentedly about paying $1 for Harold Castro, whom he expects to hit .350 at home, playing for the Rockies.
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