Another rainy morning.
Daylight light a streak on the window. A glowering dampness, like forced solitude, like the unhappiness of youth untempered by anything to compare it to. Every deal is a big deal in such light; every pain is the far end of sorrow. How to open the day like a door, walk through it?
There's a For Sale sign in front of the house on Main Street, downtown Fairwater. The flag at the cemetery is not much interested in the wet wind. A field of corn north of the village is showing its straight green lines. Nearby a field of peas is green as a rug. The air is heavy with cloud come down to earth. A dead raccoon on the road, nose pointed south, its future pointed nowhere.
By the time I reach Five Corners, a thick fog. In the parking lot at work, I see the flag in front of the building luffing mostly north to south.