Holding Cold.

That low sun tracked left to right across the kitchen once more today, which is good, since that means most of the rest of the few things we understand about our corner of the universe are probably still holding true, as well. Our cold continues. I need a snap day wherein I can sit on the porch, even for a few minutes. Fifty degrees is all I ask, really. Fifty degrees and not much wind. Drop it back into the twenties overnight, if you like. Just give me a shot at our south-facing deck, a folding chair, a cup of coffee. I know it's January. I know that what comes next is not much better. I know, too, that come August I will be out front of the parade, asking for just one day where I might get to wear a winter hat again. I will sing songs to the glories of long sleeves. And I'll keep the hat and sleeves, for now, thank you. I just want to wear them outside more often, inside less often.

That said, the dog did spin me through the park this afternoon, and in shirt and shirt and shirt and jacket and hat and gloves, it was nearly pleasant.

The revision continues. The revision continues. The revision continues. The sun's still low in that winter sky.