Monday, March 7, 2011

Cool Weather.

When the wind's not blowing, there's heat in the sun, but the wind seems mainly to be blowing, so. We are in bloom, we are leafing out, we are ready for some kind of sleetstorm. This is always and forever how it goes, no? March: it holds on and holds on, and it is only the single digits of March. We are not even approaching the ides. We are days off from whatever comes after that. I'm cooking a spring meal anyway: jambalaya and decent beer. Is there much else to report? There is not. There is abject hissing staticked radio silence. There is the inside of my head squeezing into the aisles, wanting to cut in line, trying to get out. There is the dog asleep on the sofa, and dreaming. There is the dog, to and from the vet, with about as clean a bill of health as a dog can get at 14 and change. There is a paler sky than yesterday. Tomorrow: about the same as today. Winter hats. Not ballcaps. Not fully crazy. Not yet.

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