It is a poor night for this sort of thing. Three days, and you could be convinced without issue - the snow would be dirty and gray and sparse and the afternoon would be far too bright to be in love with the season - but tonight I am reminded of something that has troubled me for some time now: there is nothing pretty about summer.
Fall has leaves and spring has flowers and if you will look out the window you will see what is to love about winter, clogging up our transportation and knocking out our power and looking so gosh-darned attractive while doing it. Winter has Christmas carols and mittens; summer has sweat and sunburn. It's a frustrating idea for someone who doesn't like running in the cold.
But while winter may be the perfect time for hibernation, for introspection, I maintain that summer is a time for growth: for flings and floats and forehands. Winter is a time for romance and precision; summer is a time for sand and energy. Winter is ridged and varied, like those endless mountain peaks that stretch high into the icy fogs, but summer is flat, plain (plane). You can see for twelve miles in any direction, and the possibilities are endless.