Thoughts in February

One sits by the kitchen window. The thermometer reads minus 21.6.
The cold bites hard out there, but inside there is calm. The gaze drifts between the frost-clouded glass and the wood-burning stove in the corner. One thinks how good it would be to build up the fire properly, to let the warmth take hold, as if it could do more than chase the chill from the room. As if it might also reach the roads outside. Melt the ice, brush away the snow, make everything passable again.

It is a dreamlike thought, but not an unrealistic one.

For the longing no longer feels alone. It has been joined by hope. A quiet, steady hope that knows February is at the door, and that winter, however harsh it feels right now, has already begun its countdown. March is waiting, with its promises of thaw, dripping roofs, and that first scent of bare ground that always arrives so suddenly.

And somewhere ahead, perhaps as early as mid-April, it happens. The first ride. The key turns. The engine answers. The roads are bare again, not perfect, but good enough. The sense of freedom is instantly familiar, as though it had never left.

Until then, the small moments are more than enough. The cup of coffee at the kitchen table. The fire crackling in the stove. A hand resting against the warm metal, thoughts drifting far away to winding roads, spring sunshine on the visor, and gravel still lingering at the edges.

Winter holds us a little longer yet. But its grip has loosened. And between the rime-frosted kitchen window and the dream of clear roads, there is a certainty: this will pass. The light has turned. And hope has already started the engine.