I knew there had to be a saying about lions and gazelles, and here is where I found it. And here is how it goes:

“Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a lion wakes up. It knows that it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn’t matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle, when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.”

The gazelles all wake up in the morning and there’s quite a lot of sibling rivalry. They’re sitting around the breakfast table and mom and dad gazelle say, “you kids are going to have to run really fast today,” and the kids all say, “we know.” and the smart alecky big brother adds, “I just have to run faster than my little sister.” But I really don’t know if that’s true. When I’m out hunting for bears or wolverines or lobsters, I’m not after the slowest one, I’m looking for the one that’s going to cook up the best and, well, the little girl needs to grow up and have babies for us to eat. I know there is some kind of lesson here, and I’ll bet it’s an important one.

But that’s not really my point, because I’m not a hunter myself. Not unless you consider chasing pigs around the yard hunting, and that’s a story I have not told here, and I probably won’t. Just imagine a pig… oh, about 2 1/2 months old… being chased around the yard because pigs are vile creatures, they really are. And you can’t kill it because you’ve paid 65 dollars for it and you’ve only spent a couple weeks just beginning to fatten it up. No, you have to catch it because when the police get calls about pigs in the woods, and then they have to come and “talk” to you about it, that’s just too embarassing for anyone to endure. Thankfully it never came to that.

But really, my point is that March begins tomorrow. It will come in like a lion and it will go out like a lamb. I’m not a big fan of lamb, and whether I have mentioned that before or not, I really am not sure. I love Indian food, and I’m sure you all know that. I only like lamb if it’s part of an Indian dish, and I don’t know if that represents some kind of racist, lambist issues in me. I’ll only eat you if you are prepared in such-and-such a way, slowly cooked with this spice and that spice… So the lamb who is clever enough not to be prepared in such a way… well the days have ended for that lamb, and… how can I put this? I guess if I were standing in that lamb’s hooves, I’d want to be eaten and really, truly enjoyed. Oh sure, there is nothing wrong with having your leg placed on a rotisserie and spun round and round and round. No, not for me. Dice me up and spice me up and call me stew.

Yes, March will go out like a lamb. In like a lion. It’s cold back home, so they tell me. I watched the Today show briefly yesterday, but long enough to see that it’s about nine degrees back home. We sat having dinner… must have been Sunday night, and my sister had prepared the most incredible pulled pork. And she announces that we’ve had eight inches of snow back home. “We” she says, as if we all have gotten that much. Well she lives near the coast and I live an hour and a half from there, on a big hill with its own weather system. They said we were getting three inches, and who am I to doubt the metereological skills our nation has to offer? The point is that Wifey jumped up from the table, took my phone, and called her parents, who live near us. We never did get ahold of someone to plow us out if it snowed, and if our animal helper people can’t get in and take care of the animals, well, there is nothing out there I’m planning on eating, not unless the hens get to laying, and I do love fresh eggs. So Wifey confirmed that we only got three inches, not enough to bother anybody, really.

In like a lion, out like a lamb, and that’s just the month of March, the month of St. Patrick’s Day and basketball tournaments, and whatnot. The longest month of the year, I think, because we’re waiting. We’re waiting for spring. Spring and fresh air that it doesn’t hurt to breathe. Spring and goat kids and milk and eggs. Spring and green grass and outdoor baseball.

I try not to get too hung up on the coming season, though. Never wish away the one I’ve got, because that would be foolish. Each day comes in like a gazelle, fast and afraid. Wish away a week or a month and suddenly the years fly by and we have no idea where they went. The gazelles are being chased — the fast ones, the slow ones, the happy ones, the sad ones. Each day comes in like a gazelle to enjoy, cherish, treasure, and if we’re lucky, the lion isn’t quite so hungry all the time.

Because if we’re really, really lucky, each and every day goes out like a gazelle.