Felted, Shingled.

What's hard to believe is that it hasn't rained. Or hadn't. Or that's what was hard to believe. What's now hard to believe is what's happened to us since seven o'clock, which is that's it's cleared off, relatively, and what we are now piloting the front porch through is something like marrying weather, blue sky and a little breeze and temps trying to push toward the low seventies. There's enough humidity in the air to catch what remains of the light, such that when it's not blocked by clouds or trees the sun, it seems to be coming through or landing on sheets, or tissue paper, or some equally tired metaphor or simile, whichever one this sentence is either like or as aiming for. Doesn't matter, doesn't matter. We seem to have set the Wayback machine for April. Or for a lucky May. What we know is that this is not June. June is what we had all damn day until now. Now, though, is something else.

The big board says it may yet rain. Go ahead: we got our evening, more than any right-minded person could have asked for given the way we started, and anyway, we're ready, give or take. Rain on our new roof. It'd be helpful, or at least instructive, to see if it worked.