By Amy Z Today is December 20th. Almost two-thirds of the way through December, it is just just two days away from the Winter Solstice, the shortest day in the year, and the first day of winter. As I write, the wind howls against my window, clanking against the smooth glass panes, and flurries of perfect white crystals coat the boughs of the fir tree outside. It is a cold, brutal night, and I am glad that I am safe in my warmly lit room with my cup of coffee at my side. It’s the scene of a perfect winter night—except for the fact that it’s not. Other than for the date, it is all a lie. When I look out my window, all I can see is dark chartreuse grass, drained of life and yet still uncovered by the glittering blanket of snow we have come to expect from this time of year. Instead of having been ten degrees below freezing, the several weeks have been consistently in the 60s—a temperature range we associate with spring or fall, not winter, and definitely not December. As I am writing, w