Unreliable Narrator.

We wake up early around these parts, and twice—let's do, as it turns out, count the Toad's midnight ninety-minute ride through various stages of sadness and complaint—but on the second time around we see what we have been seeing, which is that the forecast, ours or theirs or anyone else's, is essentially unreliable. Yesterday afternoon, briefly, we had what they'd been trying for 48 hours to give us: blazing sun and blooming azaleas and the smell of foolhardy projects out there on the edge of the wind. This morning, forecast for the same, we instead wake up to a muggy humidified post-drizzle June morning. Thunderstorms tonight, they say, but then they also did not say cold and fifty on Saturday. What do you want? A metaphor? I planted a fifteen-dollar azalea in what I thought two weeks ago was a fine spot; now my hostas, location and even existence of same erased by the the Toad, as they are pre-Toad, are coming right up through that plant. Give it an hour out there. Maybe we'll burn all this mess off and see the sky. Right now the sky is a plate set down over the top of the bowl of the world. Too much? Too bad. I've already been up twice today.

For those of you scoring at home: Kwanzaan cherry, cardinals, unspecified woodpecker, coffee, laundry, novel, shirt in need of ironing, Braves under .500, yard about to want mowing again, dog in various stages of limp and shuffle, coffee again.