Cooling Off.

Good goddamn: if KFW can keep to the interwebs, child in hand, then surely so can I, even though mine is only two in the bush. Still: tonight's weather merits mention. We tried so hard to rain all day, and we spit some, sprinkled some, but then there was nothing to show for it, sprinted morning lawnmowing notwithstanding. The lawn is mowed. Morning-mowed, even. But this is not what matters. What matters is a late-breaking cool snap, a cold front of the truly cold variety, the promise of forties overnight and the threat of thirties tomorrow, and one wonders what trash can might cover the peonies should tomorrow night's forecast get serious. The dog asked for a second walk tonight. The dog just finished off the end of the ordered rice. The dog is now doing her face on the living room rug. The dog looks upon today's other accomplishments—the semi-arranging of the nursery—with suspicion. We should all of us line our behaviors up with the dog.

The novel either rolls on, or it does not. It is as yet impossible to say. This is what pulls the forecast out of bed at, say, 4. To pad the house barefoot and scratch at the belly and worry over things unworriable (unworryable?). Which is why there should be dog, and deeply pregnant AMR, and 6:30 p.m. porching with those two in the waning greened sunlight and blooming front yard and all-around fiercing spring. One tries to remember, even as one knows one is failing, that dog and porch and friend with which to share the aforementioned are likely more important than novel or news of novel or progress of same or lack thereof or or or or or.

Here's what to like, and what to measure: the new cherry tree has all but doubled in size since we planted it six weeks ago. The tulips bloom and bloom. The yard has fully greened, even in the front, even in the weeds. The daylilies are coming in. Last year's non-blooming irises are getting ready to bloom. We may be having spring. A month and change into the season, I might be ready to say we're there.