January is a break in the breath of the hibernating bear. A fleeting, but quantifiable measure of brain activity. The first realization that there is more than this comfortable dreaming homeostasis we've chosen to succumb to. There is something to hope for, be curious about, put your faith in.

But January falls right back to sleep.

I remember one winter I stumbled across January curled up in dirty coats and not smelling so good in the park. January slept like the dread locked transient man - with all her possessions under her head. January anchored to the frigid ground - so heavy, this ship wreck rusting under the sea. So I kicked her (a little bit by accident but not entirely) and catch stepped over an aroma of fermented grapes. The suggestion of Sonoma Cab Franc convinced me that if we were to invite January out this Thursday, she too, would have exceptional taste.

So I kicked her a good one. And after three or more minutes, I was about to search her pockets before sleeping beauty finally twitched and breathed and stretched out and rolled over. And ...

That was about it. Fleeting, but quantifiable brain activity. Never to be heard from this season again.

I've seen January make an ass of herself and sleep walk. She tries to get up too quckly and loses vision momentarily - . falls like an inebrieted animal back to the frost carpet ground. Where she belongs. You can not rush January. And she'll never remember her dreams.

I hear she dreams in all shades of grape.

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