There is no snow on the island, not even isolated banks along the roads or parking lots. It’s been pleasant, but I worry about the plants and bugs that rely on the ‘way of seasons’ to time their own natural processes. House flies buzz in lazy bursts on the storm door, and green shoots poke out through dried grass. But yet, only 200 miles north in my hometown, they held dog sled races last weekend, and the mushers rode the snow from one country to another and back again. I love to recall from my memories the dogs’ raucous yelping as they pull against the sled lines, ready to take off and run. I feel almost like a snowbird, even though I haven’t left Maine.