After a long and dream-filled winter, the hoary marmot emerges from its deep burrow having burned away, in sleep, whatever fat reserves he had accumulated last summer. It's a new dawn, now, finally a new year, because all those dreary wet months hardly counted. (The marmot had, naturally, popped out for a peek at the early thaw in January, curious as to why there was so much foot traffic to and from Dolores Park so soon after Epiphany.) There's time now for everything, and scraping the sleep from his eyes he's ready to eat again, and hunt, fall in love, and lie listless in the grass wondering how the sky ever got to be so goddamn blue.