Little Day.

See, I feel like that was a day. Chilly morning, not so much for March, but for what we'd been having, and a little fire in the stove out back to ward of what needed warding. First morning in the outbuilding for a long time—turns out if you spend all winter half-building yourself a shed to write in, you might feel better if, come spring, you actually keep making that little walk.

The temps are dropping off pretty quickly out there, down through the forties, enough to make a body forget the evening spent on the back porch sunburning one's face and reading Ron Carlson's so-far impenetrable and yet so-far somehow fabulous anyway Five Skies. And here it is midnight, or thereabouts. Seems like it was just six in the evening. Seems like it was just mid-February.

Another rotogravure day on tap for tomorrow, when we're expected to see highs back near seventy and bright sun. All that green grass out there is changing the quality of the light in a way I feel like I remember. Dear sweet baby Jesus in a grass-green velour hoodie I do like spring.