Gift Cold.

See-your-breath cold out there. Rain all day. Clearing now, or trying to. The mint in my glass feels like cheating, like anachronism, like stolen Christmas cookies out of the shirt boxes of saran-wrapped cookies my great-aunt brought to Atlanta every year. Do it right and no one knows you were there, no one knows you ate another cocoa ball. Also, I used to sip maple syrup directly from the jug, which lived back left in our refrigerator. This was circa 1990. The syrup was also courtesy of my great-aunt. Big brown jug. Like gold. Like crime. The exhilaration so much a part of it.

Thirty-seven degrees is what they want for tomorrow night. The record low, as near as I can tell, is 33. I like this. Record highs I can take or leave. Hell, we'll see plenty in the coming months and years. Record low: Yes please.

Felt like it rained a couple of inches today. Probably it was only one or so. The downhill mouse's gutters overran all afternoon, but not so hard that you wanted to do much other than take note. This is how we measure now, post-Toad. I gave up the rain gauge. Now I use gut feel, sleight-of-hand, anecdotal evidence.

I have flowers that need to go in. I'm about to start thinking about tomatoes. For now, though: Bedroom window open half an inch, covers pulled up high. Thanks, April. I didn't know you cared.