Sixty Degrees.

It's sixty. Right now. Nearing midnight, in December, on the heels of a string of forty-degree days so long I don't really remember how to behave when it's as warm as it is now, which is to say that earlier, during dinner, we had the doors open. It is, in common parlance, fixing to rain. It's even raining a little already, has been, a wind-blown drizzle coming out of the south, mainly, and of course also a wee bit out of the west. Hey, southern winter storm. Hey, big rain. You will, I think, friends and fans of weather, want the umbrellas, the rain boots, the shitty jeans. But let's us not use any more commas tonight. Let's us instead crack the windows open and go to bed and wait for the rain. Let's us remember what it sounds like when there aren't any leaves for the rain to tick down onto. Onto which to tick down. We'll get this right eventually, I'm sure.