As I walk through the winter wood, all glittery with frost on a brisk morning, I find myself pleasantly lost imagining what the spring will bring. Small oblongs of soft grey fur on pussy willow, tightly curled leaves waiting for the sun to coax them to open, and new green growth on old trees. Of course, the older growth becomes tough and woody with age, much like the old fart denizens of web forums who don't care so much about posting anymore. Or perhaps they just grow up and are too busy to bring dragons strings and sealing wax, or string jewels of their words on a line for old friends.

And no, I don't really think I'm a very good writer, but there have been those who've inspired me here. I'd much rather read volumes of their words than one venomous line from a bitter, spite-driven poster, and we've got enough of them about. It's not how much a person says but what they say and how they say it.