A mottled sky,
light grey and dark, and a blueness here and there that is not the sky behind showing through. What light we have looks clingy, as if it drapes itself on things, does not drill in. You prepare for another day; you have no idea what will come of it.
There is no mistaking the season as I step outside - the grass is green, the wind warm. I hear a mourning dove; I hear a woodpecker hard at work. Pussy willows at the end of the driveway are fat and fuzzy.
A powerline above Washington Street as I head east, beyond it a line of geese stretched north to south like a powerline.
Wind is from the south. We're promised even warmer temperatures than what we've got already.
If we had mountains, could we be a mountain town?
A hawk drops down behind a rise of land east of the Highway E. As I clear the rise, I see that the bird has found breakfast. We live, we die.