Signs, Signals.

The maples are blooming, or are at least starting to bloom, which gives a kind of translucent pink-orange hue to certain of the stands of hardwoods on the way in to work. The old trash maple out the back kitchen window's in full red— and I don't think I even knew, really, that maples bloomed before I had that tree, this house. It's a subtle thing, but it's there, and it's sure.

It's cold, I think, out there. It's at least gone very cool. And that forecast for Friday keeps getting more and more interesting, such that now they want a high of 36 and a low of 35. With rain. Thursday they want basically the same thing, but with either rain or sun. Or wintry mix. They're not sure. Which means the ground would be cold enough if— All I'm saying is that a quick spool through our various locals shows that they maybe don't really have any idea what to look for come 48 hours from now. The sky ought to be clear for tomorrow night's eclipse, though.

It's good to live in these times. If I'd lived in other times, stone calendar-type times, and I'd lived through a week of seventy degrees and hard wind, an eclipse, and then snow, I'd have thought very seriously about dragging somebody out to the old sacrificing rock to see if we could soothe whoever's feelings we'd hurt. We are really, really sorry, I'd have said. Our mistake. Please accept the following contribution.

There's wind. Something's coming.