Snow-dusted path, Henne

So this morning at a little past 7:30, Punxsutawney Phil, the groundhog "Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of Prognosticators," came out of his heated den—OK, he was carried out—on Gobbler's Knob in western Pennsylvania and whispered into his handler's ear, the top-hatted gent adept at understanding Marmota monax language, that, because Phil had seen his shadow, we were in for six more weeks of winter. I have my doubts. Here, there were scant shadows, and while a slight haze of snow covers parts of some of our trails, there's just the merest of possibilities in the longer-range forecasts for significant cold and snow. I don't like to question the wisdom of rodents, but I've heard rumors of spring bulbs blossoming in Boston, and while nothing of the sort is going on here, I wouldn't be at all surprised to start seeing undeniable signs of winter's untimely demise in the very near future. I'm sure hoping that the white on this trail will get whiter and snowshoe deeper, but I'm pretty sure that's only wishful thinking. This year, I'm not a Phil Believer. Darn.