Piling Up.

There are towhees and bluejays and wrens in the back yard. Last year it snapped warm in February and we got a pair of house finches nesting in the trellis, and then it snapped cold again and their hatchling died.

The clouds are piling up out of the west, and every now and then the sun wants to break through a little bit, but mainly it's gray and not quite low— it's pushing at us, maybe. I don't know. It's like the weather is getting ready. Maybe this is the outflow from the tornadoes they're getting in Wisconsin and Arkansas and whatever other states are between here and Colorado. I don't understand very much about much of anything, but it is my considered position that January is not a big tornado month. This is also the considered position of the TV weather folk, who got to dust off the Severe Weather graphics package and were pretty jacked up about that.

It's a lonely kind of weather today, and beautiful in its own way for it, but it's making me restless and nervous and weird. I keep looking out the windows.

The shift key on my outside computer, the one in the writing shed, has developed a little squeak. The new dogs across the street bark plenty. The painters two houses up are listening to the radio. Who are you? Who, who, who, who? I really wanna know.

Still too warm, still no rain. There's a grimy yellow light underneath all these clouds.