When I came in from nourishing our birds--adding a new suet block to the feeder, flinging cracked corn and safflower seeds and breadcrumbs onto the mountain left behind by the snowplow--I happened to ring the Chap about an unrelated matter.
"Outside smells of melting snow," I reported.
"What does that mean?"
"Rainy. Sort of. Only more."
It's 48 degrees. Now I can hear the melting, too.