Front Porch.

Feels like it's 7 pm sometime in April, though the sun's still too low in the sky for that kind of thing. Quarter of five at the close of February, instead, the kind of weather that points all of our noses toward spring, the dog's, of course, included. I don't know if we ever quite fully made our sixty-five degrees today, but we were sixty-three, sixty-two, somewhere in there, little breeze, sun, mainly blue sky. They want rain from here on out, which we need, so OK. The birds are busy. Crows, songbirds. And we're too early yet for me to say so, but I'll say it anyway: The oaks and maples are starting to look fuzzy in silhouette on that ride home back down 70 and from here on the front porch, too, are starting just barely to think about at some point in the not-too-far-off-now of budding out, of leafing out.

Just to be able to sit out at the end of the day is for this moment, anyway, plenty enough.