The storm is upon us, bearing more bluster than moisture, puffing and huffing the lake into whitecaps freckled only with a few sprinkles; but blowing it is, perhaps not a gale but forcibly nevertheless, whipping the water into a froth of peaks and troughs. It is too soon for the March lion to be breathing at the threshold, yet we are reminded of his presence, as if perhaps he is stirring in his sleep.
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