Seventy Degrees.

I missed Friday's seventy degrees, but no worries: Here they are again, a windows-down-in-the-truck kind of day, a day so fine that even on top of flu shots the Toad rode the center of the bench seat all the way out to the doctor hollering and happy, and all the way home in a kind of sunsmacked stupor, resulting in the first documented instance of Toad sleep in the pickup. In other news, trees bloom in the Harris Teeter parking lot. Buds everywhere else, on everything else. And it makes sense, I guess: I missed most of February, somehow, or it slunk away under cover of night, but things bloom in these parts right around my spring break, which has been for ten years right around March 17th, so get ready. Threeish weeks. Daffodils will probably pop before February is up, at this pace. And the fancies have scaled our forecast up out of the fifties and into the sixties for the week. When we move, we move. Remember winter? Wasn't it last week? It was colder in the shed than out of it this morning. Get them windows up and open, please and thank you. Swing wide the double doors.

What else is in the forecast? Frantic revision. Line editing. Making clean and crisp that which is not. Sending soon to NYC. One big game of chicken. Holy hell.

I'll tell you what's simpler: the weather. A beer on the porch. The Toad sitting out there, delighting in the cars running back and forth. The dog overseeing the proceedings. Things are greening damn near daily. A woodpecker wanted into the shed this morning. I ran him off. Noisy fucker. I'd tell you more, but I'd have to sit inside to do it.