Each evening when I came home, I noted the light's efforts and observed how it seemed to shine a little brighter, a little more confidently. Soon, the middle light shared the same glow, faint at first and then gradually growing brighter. Finally, while trodding toward my front door last Thursday, after a particularly long day, I stopped—the third and final light in the small flowerbed was alight. I was so overjoyed at the sight (I know, I lead a simple life), I got down on all fours and peered closely at the straining bulb. I then noted that for as late as it was, even the sky still held a trace of sunlight. Spring was practically upon us, even if the bitter temperature declared otherwise.