Morning Storm.

A small one. Tiny. Not in the forecast. A few rumbles off to the northwest, the dog panting, nervous, up in the bed, and then what would have been a very nice little early June storm, if it had been early June. No progress yet on the rain gauge front, but it's not wet under the Chinese Firs, so we can't have gotten more than about a tenth of an inch. Enough, though, to dampen the flowers, and with the excellent High Point soil, that'll hold for a day or so.

Outside, then, to work on the novel— this is meant to get me stretched out and ready each morning, not to do whatever it's doing to me now, which is leaving me sitting here trying to find something else to say about the weather. We're supposed to get most versions of it this week, they say, so that's encouraging, and it's beautiful out my window right now, clouds burning off and a pale blue sky building back in behind. Hi ho, then.

I left the windows down in the truck overnight.