Fifty-Five.

If the Toad wasn't sleeping, I'd walk him to the downtown market. When he wakes up, I may bundle him and do just that. We are not cloudless, but it makes no difference. Most of the time the sun's coming through full bore. It's 55 degrees in the shade of my front porch. This'll move wrens into the open eaves along with the squirrels. This'll push the daffodils out of the ground. This'll bloom the pansies. This'll swell the dogwood buds out there on the tree I was sure was headed for death. It's mid-January -- this January, of all Januarys -- and it's this weather. It'll be frigid again by Saturday. Get outside, get outside. Get a rake or something. Do a job. Pile things up. Move things around. Get outside.