A friend in California recently counseled me on the stark reality of global warming. A nuclear physicist, this fellow is educated to an extent vastly beyond me.

I don’t have an adequate grip on the nuts and bolts of his argument, so I’ll spare you any assuredly lame attempt to repeat it. Suffice it to say that it’s pretty dark stuff.

I suppose it would be a perfect plot in a fairytale. The writer in me finds it delicious. The valiant young farm boy at length lays down his garden hoe, the water reaching an unworkable elevation in his garden plot. He is scared.

What should he do ? What could he do ? Was he but a lamb being lead to slaughter ?

Oddly, I was having these moribund thoughts today while bathing in the warm winter sunshine on the Writer’s Perch.

Many a march I can recall of bone–chilling cold, howling wind and the like. Given the picture I’ve just painted, am I, at least, to feel sheepish about enjoying this third day in a row of an unseasonably mild March ?

Does not the old Willie Nelson lyric apply ? “There’s nothing I can do about it now .”