Morning Rain.

All this got here later than they said it would, but it's here: Maybe not as much as they said we'd have, either, but rain is rain, and a dark Saturday morning is a good Saturday morning, the kind of morning where if I work hard enough I can conjure up one of those middle school Saturdays after I'd won the fight with my father to let me wear his Army shirt from Vietnam, and it'd be cool enough to wear it, dark green canvas with almost no patches save for some kind of bar or star situation and PERRY in lack embroidered stitching. I thought it was the single most badass item in the world. Didn't give a ton of thought to what it might have felt like to watch your son wearing an item of clothing that nearly prevented you from having a son. I was thirteen. Selfish. Limited in world view. Or any view. Have I covered this in this space before? Maybe I have. I do not know. I've been bad about every part of this recently. I've been distracted. But we've got a warmish chilly October Saturday rain, and I'm trying to come back to this, to meteorophiling, to some semblance of calm, of the everyday. The book is going to be a book. This is a big deal. But the weather, as it turns out, is still going to be the weather. Don't forget about the orders of things.

Cold coming behind this, but it's one of those forecasts that keeps edging up by a couple of degrees each day. Probably means the fancies don't really know much except that they think somebody might have to dig out a sweater. We shall see, friends and fans of weather. I think we shall, anyway.