Still Warm.

Oh, the day: class outside even as class outside meant fiasco, like always, meant nine kids trying so hard to give a damn about four good poems and failing as often as not. And we did have four good poems, which is a better day than so many days, but the four good poems could not quite compete with seventies and sun and sun and seventies. Oh, the day.

Gonna be cold soon enough. Warm again, too, but all I'm saying is, Go outside. Now, tomorrow morning, tomorrow evening. House finches in both of the ferns now. Spring trying so hard to come on. We're not ready yet, but we're damn near there. Now come the cold snaps. Now come the frozen Bradford Pears. Happens every year like this. We can never bring it on all nice and easy-like. Always back and forth. But still: We are, I am telling you here in early March, damn near there.