Between Seasons.

We're clouding over here in the Gate City as we push toward afternoon, toward weekend. We're in some interstitial spot out there—we're not cool, but we're not warm. The buds on the dogwood out front are opening, but this might check them up a little bit. We are not spring and we are not winter. We are not even a real temperature: We're 53. That matters come September, when we get back those cool nights, but now? In the daytime? Ignore those blooming daffodils. This is a Friday that is not happening.

Or maybe it's me—maybe my head is so scrambled from having sent the new draft up to 10003 that it just feels like everything has ground to an utter and final halt. Sorry, marriage. Sorry, boy. Sorry, everybody. Goodnight, moon. I have been in an odd place these last tenish days. I had forgotten the frantic pace of that kind of revision, had forgotten what kind of physical tired drops down on you. It makes a body want for some very simple, lower-order things. Coffee. Sleep. Coffee.

And still the everyday things jangle in the background: We are in want, if not need, of a new cherry tree. Or I am. The basketball tournament is almost on us, which means its nearly time to mow the lawn, which means probably I should find somebody to tune this old mower and generally make apologies to it for having had to winter out of doors. The truck could use some looking at. Some aligning. Some carburetion. I looked it up. That's how it's spelled. Who knew?

Friday. It is Friday. That means something, I'm sure.