As I write, I watch heavy snowflakes cover brick sidewalks and coat tree limbs. It’s almost spring, but Boston is a sleepy winter wonderland—her denizens indoors and her streets muted by a blanket of snow. Except for the occasional bundled passerby (last-minute groceries or a pup in need of exercise, I imagine), my little neighborhood is quiet. It’s cold and wet and snowing in mid-March. And I love it.