Home Again.

And just like that a flight out of La Guardia, a loop around the top end of Manhattan and back down the other side, tiny sack of pretzels and half a Coke and the tray tables unlocked and locked again and back home to 27408, to high clouds, to warm weather. Warmish, anyway. A dogwalk sans jacket. Warm enough.

A quick check of the yard — so nice to see the yard — shows daffodils coming up almost everywhere now, and right out front, two buds. Seems early for daffodil buds. The crocuses haven't even started blooming. But I'll take it, even if it's wrong— those early risers can bloom whenever they want to, and if they get smashed in a freeze, well, so be it. There are others behind them. I plant at the wrong time, after it's too late and everything's half off, or more. November, December. This is the price of the sale bulbs. The ones that are budding aren't this year's set, anyway, so out of last year's set I'll take anything that's offered.

Odd to jet back and forth across the country. Odd to live way above my means for a few days. Odd to ride the trains, odd to come back home and look around and see trees, the sky, a horizon. It rained while we were gone. Coming back in, the plane flew over the lakes, and they're still awful, still dry, but they're better. Barely better. The fancies want to rain on us a couple more times this week. Maybe I'll fly back and forth again after that, look out the windows, check on our progress.

The new dogs across the street are at it. Barking, whining. Don't know how you could sit in your house and let your dogs do that. It's a whole other way to live. As for me and my way, I'll just sit over here and stew about it. Watch the yard grow. Plan. Scheme. In NYC, it's never quiet, either. Emergencies at all hours, sirens up and down, car horns. Beagles seem maybe about the same. Who the hell knows. We're back.