It rained much of the day
yesterday, and into the evening. This morning opened blue and wide.
We know about hiding places here - cellars and closets and bath tubs, even. Places of shelter, refuge from the sudden storm sweeping in off the plains to the west. Refuge from the great wind. We can lay belly-down in a ditch, if we have to. You learn these things growing up here. It is the weatherman imported from another place entirely (another planet?) who thinks any of this is "news." If one hasn't learned these things by the time he is seven years old, knock him in the head: he should not get any older; he is simply a fool and should not be allowed to propagate.
You know, Tom, if you listen to yourself long enough, you'll hear yourself saying the damnedest things.
Morning is a kitten that stayed out all night and now wants attention, nuzzling your face. The sun is warm. Heavy moisture on the windshield. There is not a sign of frost. A cat sitting in the sun, in our bedroom window, soaking warmth.
Donna of C&D is taking garbage out to the curb as I head up Washington Street. Another neighbor is backing his old blue station wagon out his driveway, going off to some odd job or other.
At the Sina farm which had the fire this past summer, the end of the building that has been salvaged is finally being covered over - in time to keep out the snow.
All the tilled fields reveals the rich darkness of our soil, this heavy prairie.
Near Union Street, a field of winter wheat seems to have sprouted. It is a green blanket already.
As I turn onto Watson Street, the woman stopped at the stop sign there looks back at me, deeply. Is it something I do that draws these long, deep looks? There seem to have been many of them recently, hereabouts and in Missoula as well. I do look at people, do try to look into them, I suppose. Does this make a tighter connection than I'm aware of?