Dry Cold.

A winter day like we were inside of something, a shop window, a snowless snow globe. Clear sky pressing down. The sun lower and lower in the southern sky, regretful, almost. Blank. Birds: A blue heron, vultures, a small hawk.

A confession: Though I know better, each time it rains, a small part of me wonders if maybe that was the last time.

On the radio, a man said he'd taken pictures of people covering glaciers in the Alps with thermal blankets to keep them from melting. Canadian scientists are working on ways to wick the fog out of the air in Nepal. Georgia and Alabama and Florida are suing each other over the Chattahoochee.

For the record, then: High 42, Low 28. Breeze. Clear. No rain. For breakfast, a pot of coffee. Lunch: Chicken sub. Dinner: Leftover chili. That's how my grandfather used to do it. Weather, food. I could never have resisted the urge to add something on. Like what's in your pockets at the end of the day. Maybe he had clean, organized pockets. I've got pen caps and receipts from three days ago and crumpled sticky notes and movie ticket vouchers and a burned-out low-voltage twenty-watt xenon bulb.