Graduation Time.

There are times when it feels like the weather is going to keep happening, no matter what, every day.

Here are the particulars: Some kind of something is trying to pull itself together as it tracks east off the mountains and 709ward. I'd love it. Crack the windows and listen to it rain from, say, 1-3 a.m.? Certainly. Another day where it wasn't hot? Certainly. I feel like even if all this is seasonal, I remember other seasons where we were firmly and entrenchedly into the nineties by now. I remember Carr Street mid-Mays of brutal heat, of fetid afternoon humidity, of the looming doom of June and July. But this May, this time around, this year, is so lovely, so benign, so friendly—let me not jinx it by going on. Let me say only that of late, when it comes to this point in the night, wherein I would not so much mind maybe three icecubes and a mint leaf (said mint recently pilfered from Carr Street, in fact, from the same stand Thunderbird planted before she bolted town, may we forever celebrate her name and deeds) and a bit of whiskey—and let me say that in fact I am, as they say, fixing to have said mint and ice and whiskey—what has happened to this sentence, friends and fans of weather? of syntax? of subject-verb agreement? of held-together, cogent thought?—

What I mean to say is this and this alone: Weather like this makes me start, around this time of night, whiskey aside, to fantasize about morning coffee. As I write this very sentence AMR is grinding the grounds. And I thought I liked the sound of the train best.

Mint. Coffee. May. About damn time to graduate. I get to every year.