The day is between here
and there. It wants to be grey but we can see blue. It wants to be cold but we can feel warmth. It wants to be bitter but the sweetness of spring is not far off. The chirping of the birds is the only truth of this sky. Spring is coming. The birds are in love, or they will be soon. The reason we cannot turn back time is that it's nature's nature to fall apart, to decompose, to head back towards the basic elements of stuff. If time ran backwards, the old would become new; the budding best of spring would come to the emptiness of winter; I would know less today than I did yesterday.
Coffee in the pot would become water and ground beans again, and that just won't do these mornings when sun and cloud struggle for the sky.
Frost covers only the top half of the windshield. Geese call overhead as I prepare to back out the driveway; they bunch up, then spread out again into a long line. There is a fat ol' round robin on a lawn at the end of Washington Street. There is a light wind this morning from southwest to northeast.
In Ripon the blind man walks up Watson Street. Tick tick tick goes his cane on the sidewalk. Tick tick tick goes the day.
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