Wrong Clothes.

Since even before I got out of bed this morning, I've felt wrong: wrong day, wrong mood, wrong clothes. Like I've got the wrong pants on, or like I'm wearing them wrong. Wrong number of layers for the weather. Wrong hat. Canceled class for no good reason—even correctly prepared for it, I'm not sure what I would have said to them about anything—and took the dog for a walk. I left the house with no coat, no gloves. Wrong.

Two guys were delivering a refrigerator to the corner of Quail and whatever that other road is, and they did it wrong, I think, because on the way by the first time they were delivering it, and on the way back by, on the way home, they were fixing the screen door, which they'd evidently somehow mangled.

Two bluebirds on a chain-link fence down at the bottom of the dogwalk hill. Blue like paint from a tube. Seems soon for bluebirds. Seems soon for everything.

And we get winter again, which is right and correct for right now, but all the daffodils, wrongly blooming, may not do so well tonight, when it is meant to be something like 23 degrees. The sky looks wrong, like some mishmash of seasons, or the light's wrong on it, or in it, or the clouds are wrong. Like biscuits, like something else.

This hinterland between winter and spring seems today a kind of precarious place. It doesn't seem wrong. I just feel wrong in it. One small kindness, though— once I did come in to work, a student brought me a cup of tea. Resolved: I'll try harder tomorrow.