I sit outside on a night that is not supposed to be cold. It is brisk, and the wind carves into me. I watch the smoke from the cigar of the adjacent table proliferate above me as it is carried by the wind into oblivion. The third frost of winter has peaked into spring. As soon as my bones were settling under the Southern sun, the Arctic air prevailed once more with a sneak attack from the flank of the State. I should not be surprised. Southern seasons, especially winter, provide both bites of cold and soothing hands of warmth. As I recline, following the dances of smoke, I enjoy each step for its moment.