Wind Shifted.

Dog, ears half back and face pointed full into a damp easterly breeze: as much a barometer as we need around these parts, and enough to make certain the belated declaration that there does seem on this Friday evening to be some kind of weather riding in. This morning and this noon gave us a warm drizzle, a kind of springtime, bring-on-the-food-crops kind of feel, but this evening smells of something different. This evening smells like fall, like dog. Like sitting out on the porch, which is what we're doing here in the 68 degrees and gray, AMR sticking her head from time to time out the front door to bluster and bleed and generally make with the sadness about the change in temp, the shift in the wind. AMR is of the tank-top persuasion. The dog and I, we tend towards jeans and boots. And sniffing. And thinking that the days of fleece caps cannot be so far over the horizon that we can't see them. Nothing before its time—give me this season over the not-season—but all the dog and I are saying is, yes, please: this. And then that.

Every time I look up and over at the dog, she looks dead back at me, wondering why we're here, and not five blocks leashward. It's a fair question. I could say more about what all this is, which is some measure of peaceful, the breeze in the drying leaves just enough to cover over the hum, the cool in the air almost enough to cover over everything else—but simpler things are owed. Dog. Leash. It's the end of the week. Another one's coming, and this time with another weather.