You have to admit that was a laugh and a half when out of his lair Phil with his grey hair and nary a care forecast “spring is in the air.” His cohorts in top hats and dress coats, smooth velvety fitted gloves, cummerbunds wrapped around expanding girths and glossily shined winter boots exhorted in praise his most excellent prognostication. The gathered audience whooped in appreciation, the combined exhalations creating a frozen mist tableau in the frosty stillness. Stomping their numbed feet and with a low resonance coming from hundreds of applauding mittened hands Phil was put back in his burrow to sleep away the hours until the earth is flush with early spring flowers.

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