Getting Close.

The only way this could get any better is if it were 49 instead of 59. Or 39. We are only a few clicks away from oatmeal weather here, and for some of you tuning in this morning, we're probably already there. I'm wearing a henley I bought in either high school or college. Flannel pants. A watchcap. I look like a confused half-dressed will-work-for-food vaudeville clown. Which I all but am, anyway. These were the warmest clothes closest to the top of the stack.

Mist and fog, for those of you wondering what that is, is this. Less mist now than an hour ago, sadly, but we'll take it all the same. The weekend's pansies have to be happy to be getting watered in like this, and though it's not the weather for it, weather like today's makes me readier still to peel the walls off the building out back, fix what ails it, and get the new walls back up and on. What we need back there is something a body could hunker down in. Take refuge. Sit in the rehabbed space and think, If it was 49 today, or 39, even, then it'd be about time to think about a woodstove.

Yellows and oranges and hints of flame red in the tops and understories of the maples up and down the block here. Dogwood out front fully turned, and almost purple. We are right on the very knife edge, people. We are right there.