The temperature is
in the mid-forties this morning. It's December 4th, the temperature is in the mid-forties! A wet street, a hazy sky, a fellow wondering how long winter will wait. Our desire for mildness pushes back.
Sometimes I think I have only a few tricks and use them over and over; a few things to say and I keep repeating myself. When all is said and done, a fellow has so few things in his bag.
The pond is an instant of sky.
The air is as balmy a day as in late May.
A greyness overhead.
The flag at the cemetery in Fairwater blows southwest to northeast, if not south to north. It's a languid flap, like a girl speaking with a drawl.
South of Ripon, a hawk goes down sharply onto a worked field, goes down feet first. This means breakfast for the hawk: it means death for some small creature.
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