Like so many of us lost under mountains of snow at the end of February I was thinking of summer. Not hot, broody, blue, hazy, humid summer. No, my favorite summers are filled with warm rain and foggy forests. I can sit on an old wet stump and watch the mist build up on a leaf. The leaf underlines the dark grey sky and slowly begins to bend. A small pool forms just behind the curled sharp tip of the leaf. Slowly the dam gives way, the water falls and the leaf flys back upward like an empty catapult flinging nothingness at a distant invisible battlement.