Dog Storm.

Whatever this is, we're getting pretty good rain out of it. At about 6:45, just before it started rumbling, the dog hopped up on the bed seeking solice, and I thanked our resident barometer and ran outside to roll the windows up on the truck. By the time I got back in bed it was raining, and it has been since. What thunder we did get was that kind of low, peeled-apart-sounding thunder, cloud-to-cloud, slow, sleepy. So far at least a half a inch. So far the shed and its spanking new half-finished bathroom remains dry. So long as I've been up the temperature's been holding right around sixty degrees. It's enough to make a person want for some blue jeans.

I know there are people who don't care much for this kind of thing, who know now they're looking at a morning of jogging across parking lots and walking soggily through chilly grocery stores and post offices. This is the weather where if you want a funk to come down on you, you can sure as hell engineer that. This is one of those harbingers of colder things to come, of summer headed out and fall waiting there in the corner, a lurker at the party. This is the canary in the coal mine. I've always wondered if they named those guys. My grandmother had a parakeet when I was a kid. Name: Birdy. But that is not the point. The point is no, people, no. Don't sulk. Have more coffee instead. Have more coffee and wear one of your long-sleeved t-shirts from the Boulevard Bolt. You love those things. It's been too warm to wear them. It's been months since you pulled on one. Get one of the ones you cut the cuffs off of. Hunker down. Crack a window. Cut a light on. Read something. It's Tuesday. Something's coming through. It's raining.