Shadow? What Shadow?

     I have a  groundhog day confession to make.  I couldn't remember which shadow predicted spring and which shadow predicted winter. I checked the internet, I checked the news, I checked the papers, and still, I couldn't keep straight whether the shadow meant lingering winter or early spring. I wrote it down on the back of a magazine, but got confused when I checked my own notes.  "Shadow winter near no shadow spring near or winter lingering or early spring..." It made no sense to me.  I changed the status of the shadows so many times in my last blog that I no longer remembered if the rat saw his shadow and winter was lingering, saw his shadow and winter was fleeing, didn't see his shadow and winter was lingering, or didn't see his shadow and winter was fleeing. See what I mean?
     To be honest, I really didn't care. 
     All I know is that when Mr. Big and I stepped outside yesterday morning, it was cold. So cold, in fact, that when I plopped Biggie on the ground he started shivering from head to toe, those little feathery pom-poms on his sweater shaking so hard that feathers started to fly off and he looked as if he were molting. And oh! the look he gave me as he stood there on the icy, frozen tundra. It was a cross between "Please please please take me back inside before I turn into a snowpoodle" and "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING BRINGING ME OUT HERE IN THIS COLD?"  I snapped a quick picture of him because he was looking oh-so-cute in his sweater and baby blue is such a good color on him,  then hurriedly ran back inside. 
      Who needed shadows, anyway, when a thin crust of ice was covering everything in the yard and the weatherman was predicting another winter storm brewing in the gulf? I could figure out that ole man winter still had a few gasps of cold air left in him just by looking out the back door. Didn't even need that old groundhog. Didn't even need to go outside.
     I'll believe spring is coming when I see the first hyacinths poking through the ground or catch a purple glimpse of an early crocus peeking through the winter soil.  I'll believe it's here when the ground is no longer frozen as hard as macadam and  Mr. Big prances happily through the yard, lingering when I call him to come back inside.
     The temperature today soared to nearly 60 degrees, a far cry above yesterday's bone-chilling 38, but I won't be fooled by this little puff of warm air.  We're not done yet, ole man winter and me. I know he's coming back for one last round, one last blast of bitter cold and gray skies, wintry mixes of snow and ice, one last attempt to catch us with his icy fingers. But soon we'll slip from his grasp and he will fade away, a fleeting February shadow, spring marching in to take his place.
     And I didn't need a groundhog to tell me that.