Seasons are strange things. Twenty-four hour days swim together, all seemingly the same until they are suddenly different. Some stretch endless toward evening. Some escape our clutches, sunlight seeping through clenched fists. Some just pass. And we hardly notice.We keep making breakfast and washing dishes and looking out that same kitchen window.

Seasons are strange things. Twenty-four hour days swim together, all seemingly the same until they are suddenly different. Some stretch endless toward evening. Some escape our clutches, sunlight seeping through clenched fists. Some just pass. And we hardly notice.We keep making breakfast and washing dishes and looking out that same kitchen window.