Low Clouds.

And today, a gray March day, but somehow better, different: perhaps it's that I finally dragged ass across the street last night and knocked on the door and said, Paul, it's about those beagles. Full disclosure: They were still barking tonight. But somehow it's better— I went over there and Paul talked to me about pea gravel and interest rates and beagles and how he grew up in this neighborhood and indeed he did agree to try to keep them beagles from barking, and indeed I did agree to try to believe him.

He gave me his phone number. We're to call if it's again 2:45 a.m. and the beagles are, well, barking.

I have a thing. Can't help it. Repetitive noises. They make me homicidal. Dripping water. Flappy item caught in the car A/C vent. Barking dogs.

But all day long it was low and gray and still I was triumphant in my suburban diplomacy. This is what was wrong with me yesterday. Doom. Loss of hope. Prospect of overnight barking forever. So last night I stood in the driveway, beagles going apeshit, and then somehow I found the courage to go over there. I am maybe not a brave man. I am maybe more of a shouter than a fighter. Still. So.

Rain in the forecast for tomorrow. Tree still not fully in bloom. Hell: let the wind and hail come. Just make the dogs be quiet, and I will give it all back. Give us another half-inch and we can negotiate. Late night. Weather inside and out: Quiet. Maybe another ice cube, maybe a little bourbon. Low clouds. Gray. Cool. Quiet. And every possibility things will stay that way. And every possibility they won't.