New Season.

Fall's out there. They're saying stove weather by the weekend. It was eighty today and still you could smell it, still you could wear your long sleeves home in the pickup through the late dry evening. Every day there's news, good news and bad news, but finally the news I'm ready for is no news, some blank sunny chilly days—and that's what they want to give us for Saturday and Sunday, and friends, I will take it, which is good, because that's what's forecast whether we're for it or not.

I want coffee and scotch. I want less to think through, more buttons to button. Hard summer. Hard late summer. Give us a new season, please. We're ready. I am, anyway. And hopeful. Which is how fall always makes me feel. I know spring is supposed to be that way. I've just always had it backwards. Probably always will.