Late Frost.

It's cold out there. Like open-the-kitchen-door-while-you're-doing-the-dishes-and-change-the-temperature-of-the-house cold. Frost in the low-lying areas, in the country. We're meant to be safe up here on the citified hill. Plus, the peonies are still budded down—golf-ball-sized, almost, but still in buds. Not much else needs protecting: the daylilies are indestructible, and the pansies are still in. So: a late April semi-frost, a cold kitchen, a quiet night, see-your-breath chilly, that smell of fading winter one last time before we push back towards eighties this weekend, and probably all but for good. Certain things remain on the horizon: the TLK June winter, that rainy longsleeved day of coffee with maybe something in the bottom of it, but we're damn near done here on the Piedmont. This is late for this kind of cold. Not historically late, but late all the same.

Dog seems happy to have all her fur on a night like this. I've got the upstairs window cracked. Here's hoping we'll sleep cold. Bed down hard out there in the ferns, house finches and baby house finches. Tomorrow night we're back to normal. Tonight we're chilly in such a lovely way.