We had a little spit of snow
and rain yesterday towards evening but not enough to accumulate anything on the windshield. The morning is grey, mild for January but not warm. A little blow of snow on the roof tops and in the driveway and perhaps some slippery spots out there. A certain softness to the clouds overhead, a redness to the bush at the end of the driveway.
Time to drive away.
I'm halfway down Washington Street and wave to a neighbor out starting a car in his T-shirt. See, it's not that cold. A little flutter of flag at the cemetery.
In the country, the greyness is a wall a mile off in all directions. The road is a little bit slippery. A car passes me, the driver in a hurry. Slippery dickory shock. I do not have to answer for him.
At Five Corners, the donkeys are eating their hay, their ears laid back.
Is there a redness pulsing behind everything this morning, or am I imagining things?
In the distance behind me as I enter Ripon, a long line of headlights. At the city limits, the smell of something burned. On Watson Street, a fellow is out to mail a letter; he is in his shirt sleeves, hunched with a little chill but not in any particular hurry.
Now the day seems awfully grey and dark. Is there a storm coming?
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