Noontime Oatmeal.

Because that's the sort of day we've drawn: Low, low clouds, temps in the forties, big rain coming. Two inches over the next five days, which will take us toward seven for the month. Added mandatory Greensboro caveat, from having been left short so many times: Or so they say. But that radar looks like even an armchair meteorologist could point at all the Doppler mess and say, Ah, Mabel? Probably best if one of us goes out and rolls up the windows on the Buick.

Dogwoods holding, holding, waiting for a run of sunny days in the sixties and seventies. Tulips holding, too, and the Japanese magnolias, and the damn near everything else. This has so far been a slow smolder of a spring, hints and fits and starts and a day or two where you think, I better stock the fridge with some cheap beer, and then a run of other days where you figure maybe it might be best not to get out of bed at all.

Head a mess this morning, sparked full of ideas and inertia all at the same time. Turned the heat on out back there in the writing shed. Now I'm just waiting for it to warm over out there. So to speak. Or so they say.

Warmer weather by the weekend. Chance of rain all the way through. Keep your boots by the door. Maybe keep one pair by the front door, another by the back. Best to be prepared.