Damn Near.

It's going to be cold—chilly, rather—tomorrow and Saturday. We may get a fern-killing frost overnight one or both nights. We may not. It's close. They keep moving that Friday night low back and forth. Doesn't matter. Look at the dogwoods. Yours, mine. We're close. We are right about there.


Just now—we're riding the porch again this morning, of course, the dog and I—an extraordinarily old man came by with an extraordinarily young dog. Long, long leash. At each block, the dog would get to the curb, and then he'd just stand there, turn around and look over his shoulder, and wait for the man to teeter up behind him. Mad's still staring after the two of them like she can't believe any part of it.