I meditate a lot. Sometimes up to several seconds at once.

Last Monday was one of my deeper days and I decided to mull over what week, over the last few months, the weather gurus would designate as our official winter.

The normal span of dark hours featuring snow and ice turned out to be nothing more than a schizoid series of weather patterns that couldn’t agree if they just wanted to skip the freezer season and go directly into a series of nettlesome breakup patterns.

The dipsticks chose to be total anal exits and served up continuing banquets of mud and ice combos featuring side dishes of jet-exhaust winds that played Frisbee with roof shingles and switched lawn ornaments in neighbors’ yards.

As I pondered such speculative musings, a sign of spring suddenly roared by our front bay window.

It was Horn Dawg, our neighborhood head stud, and feral pheasant, accompanied by a half dozen of his harem all in afterburner and headed for the dense pucker brush just north of the cabin.

I knew that our mutt, Luna-the-Loon couldn’t have spooked them because she had just snarfed down the equivalent of her weight as a snack and didn’t have the energy to utter a single “wuff” without a near-death nap.

It turned out what had frightened the birds into their firing butt rockets was a young eagle dead set on turning ole HD or one of his ladies into a feathery Happy Meal.

I considered the return of Dawg’s accompanying harem a sure sign of spring. Red, on the other hand, could have cared less what their appearance portended other than he was the one selected from the breakfast all-you-can-eat menu.

Fortunately, he managed to crash land into some heavy toolies leaving the novice raptor with talons full of dry weeds and bent fanny feathers.

HD’s concubines had veered away from the chase when they realized that their stud muffin was the target. I figured that there was going to be an old fashion pitch-a-fit and claw stompin’ when he caught up with his bug-out buddettes later in the day.

Years back, another definite harbinger of spring break up used to be my old dog Howard who stepped over the rainbow bridge several years ago.

When breakup was in full swing, he would turn into a mud ball that was 90 percent oozing clay, 5 percent basic crud, topped off with varying percentages of congealed bio masses and winter-kill parts that he managed to roll in during his beach forays.

The situation wasn’t all bad, especially if there were some subsequent light freezing conditions during his run, because I could lightly whack him with a hammer and the stuff would calve off like frontage on a retreating glacier.

Back in the day, there were other signs, of course. The newspaper delivery personage started leaving the daily tabloid at the far end of our street because of her lack of a tank to negotiate the road.

A small lake usually formed in a growing depression in the back yard that returning water fowl used as a rest stop and navigational landmark until things dried up.

Once, 40 years ago, things were so bad, I seriously considered mounting outrigger wheels on my little Dodge rust truck so that it wouldn’t tumble into some of the local potholes and become fill material.

Wild Wille lost his beloved beater that way, along with his pet goat, Willamena, who he forgot was catching some z’s under the camper shell. He’s still wearing a black armband to this day. He was really attached to that pickup.

Note: The lack of a winter season does have its negatives especially if it involves dust growing on skies, blades, track vehicles and winter gear worth a mortgage payment.

But, then there are the positives.

I no longer need a flashlight, an ice axe and steel spiked boots to crawl from the front door out to our rigs to fire them up in the morning. Plus, I can restore the case of de-icer I use to thaw the vehicles’ windows and frozen doors that disgustingly seal themselves after a night of wind, freezing rain, and snow squalls.

But hey, even with this latest light blanket of snow, I think spring just may be here because my truck has started smelling different.

Just the other day I noticed the ambrosia of old dried out salmon eggs wafting up from the bed along with an odiferous whiff of a long-forgotten piece of bait herring from under the spare tire. If nothing else, it’s a major hint that it’s almost fishing season.

But, not quite sure what that means nowadays. If things keep going the way they are, the only thing up for grabs will be Irish Lords and bull heads this year.

Nick can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com if he isn’t chasing moose out of dormant flower garden worth more than a dressed-out Harley.