It’s back. Hot damn it’s back. Two steps out the door at lunch and it hit me like a ton of bricks. We’ve turned the corner. The nose knows and there’s no arguing with the nose. It’s Spring, kids. Smell that dirt-n-worms on the breeze? Two or three full lungs of the stuff and I tell my seasonal affective disorder to piss-off. Bring on the mud and melanin and wandering overblown streams in soggy, grinning elation for fish like swimming middle-fingers. I could care less if we hit zero-degree-fahrenheit next week. I could care less if we catch another save-the-women-and-children-this-one-will-be-a-doozie storm. Right now the snow is hollerin’ uncle to low-50’s, retreating from the sidewalks and the haggard-and-hopeful grass is starting to find its backbone. We’ve turned the corner and that fat Phil in Punxsutawney said it’s coming early. Shake hands. This won’t be a clean fight. Let’s get it on.