Snow and then rain and then fog
and then wind and then snow and then rain
and water in your shoes
and your shoes coming off
in the sucking mud,
and you wish you were in Georgia,
but you have a big coat
and firewood enough,
and isn't it all lovely
with no one around,
just you and your selective memory
with the jays calling in the mist
and the ground showing through,
with the Bucs on a tear
and the Masters about to start and, oh,
can't you smell the azaleas so sweet
as you make the turn and head home
on your own little winning streak?
