Winter Cap.

Mid to upper fifties and a hard wind out of the east and north. Probably 20 mph gusts. Does one use a term like wind chill in May? One does if one is deliriously happy to be front-porched with dog and beat-up ancient corduroy shirt and winter cap. Here's who else is deliriously happy: dog. So what if there's a looming jaunt out to Popped-Collar Polytechnic this noon? There's the promise of a second dogwalk later on, when, even if the day warms itself past winter caps this afternoon, winter cap weather may arrive again this evening. They want 41 degrees tonight. Forty-one. Oftentimes, at graduation (coming to a keenly manicured lawn near you this Saturday, May the whatever, at nine-thirty in the a.m.), it's ninety-one by the time we've worked from Alexander A. Aarminton to Xavier Y. Zarathustra. That, for those of you still warming up for one last math problem, is a fiftyish-degree difference. Show your work, please.

May has been deeply odd. Schizophrenic at times. All the seasons all at once. Like somebody let a toddler into the control room. I had myself convinced that yesterday was nice. Today, though, is nicer. Take long, long lunch breaks, friends and fans of the last cool day. I'm not promising it is—the last one, that is—but it's May. Even all bent and backwards, this could still be the last one.