Again, a wetness.
Moisture could be the love of God. Could it be that we've been praying wrong?
There is moisture on the street, greyness overhead. I'm a little foggy-headed myself this morning. I'm getting ready to go to work but I don't know why. I don't know what I want today.
Ah, the pond is full of algae, it's a mush surface, a greenness more death to the pond than life. The knife is always double-edged, isn't it, cutting both ways.
The wind appears to be from the south. Downtown there is a slow flap of flag. There is no flag at the cemetery.
Two miles north of the village, a county grader works the shoulders of Highway E.
A field is showing a faint green rug where a drilled crop is coming up already - peas, I suppose.
I think we make secret compacts with ourselves, each of us, but I'm not sure we know all of them, nor that we necessarily fully understand them.