As I sit in the Phoenix airport and watch the pure color of a clear sky fade slowly to dusky, robins egg blue, I want spring more than anything. Winter was here, I'm sure, but it's been gone for awhile now. The small velvety red mounds (I'm sorry Phoenix, I mean mountains) have no snowy tips. Barren of the verdant colors I'm used to at home, they're still beautiful. They look so warm, so soft.
It's a balmy 72 degrees here. I can sit by the entry way to the plane and not shrink back from icy chills. Instead, I partake the lavish warmth, the sweet smells that, at home, would mean the coming of summer. Of green parks and sprinklers, trampolines and sunburns.
If it wasn't for the fact that 72 degrees is the typical mid-February temperature, I could live here. But I know what comes next, and it ain't pretty. So, even though I sort of wish I was staying in this warmer climate, that I could plop myself on a rock next to a paranoid lizard with darty eyes and soak up some sun, I'm heading to more familiar weather.
Alright Chicago, bring it on.