Small Preparations.

A confession: I really thought we'd wake up to a kind of mottled sunshine this morning, a respite from all this gray out in front of what the fancies are promising may be some toothy midnight storms. Instead, March continues apace, the sky back behind the white church steeple itself almost white. It was grayer earlier, when, I kid you not, The Human Race raced by 709, directly down the middle of our street. The Human Race had rainsuited paramedics on bicycles. The Human Race had tall skinny men spitting into the curbs. The Human Race had persons holding their sides in half-agony. Much later on, The Human Race had small children. The Human Race had tweens. Eventually, The Human Race had plump persons ambling past with soda bottles in their hands. Those humans were not so much racing as doing the bare minimum possible to earn their The Human Race long-sleeved t-shirts.

We're warm enough for storms. What's building down south, down in and around Georgia, looks pretty fierce. Already here at ANYLF we are considering ways we might better secure the ferns to their front porch hooks, so as to better secure the procreating finches held therein. One does not want storm-evicted finches. As far as your signs and omens go, that cannot be a great one. So: Maybe a bit of string or twine later on. I have to upset them anyway—the ferns need water. Might as well do what I can to tie them down at the same time. And this is what it comes to, friends and fans of the long suburban wash: We spend our afternoons knotting our songbirds more tightly to their perches. And better yet: We spend our mornings planning to.