Good Socks.

You would want to love the weather to love what we're picking up in the Gate City right now: it may be above freezing, but if it is, it's only just; we've got what looks like corn syrup falling out of the sky and onto what remains, which is plenty, from our weekend sleet storm, which itself was over the top of five or six inches of fine powdery snow; we've got here locally at 709 what has to be something on the order of 75 robins all in the backyard, and in the maple in particular, shitting about a fifty-foot-radius of robin shit down into the slush and freezing rain. The sky's the kind of gray where it could either be eight in the morning or dusk. That rain is freezing to the deck posts, but not to the chairs. So let's call it 33 degrees, perhaps 34. If you were headed shedwards to wrestle the end of that chapter together, you'd want to be thinking about a serious, full-to-capacity fire. Today's a day to consider which of your socks might be the good ones, and to select those.