Water Vapor.

That's Ida there, just off the coast, or well off the coast, I guess, in comparison to where it's been—and those are the high clouds we've got this morning right there in the center of North Carolina, and, locals, if you look out your window, that is the sun you're seeing, even through those high clouds. Remember the sun?

We are on our way towards unseasonable warmth, and I can't, I guess, complain—the kitchen windows are open back here in the back of the house, and the wind is making that winter sound it makes as it comes through the mainly leafless branches, and I've already been to the store and back, and there is juice in the house, and good bread. A day of trench-digging stretches out in front of me here at 709—one thing seven inches of rain will do for you is show you just where and how you ought to French drain your writing shed. I'm looking forward to the work, even: something straightforward, like a hole in the ground, something that doesn't come with a lot of questions, might be good on a day like today.

If you do have any questions, though, I offer this, from the grocery, this morning:

Dad, to two kids, ages maybe eight and nine: Well, if you vote for the team you think will win, your odds are pretty good. But if you vote for the team you want to win, it gets harder.