The temperature is about
freezing. The weatherman had threatened us with snow, or snow mixed with rain, or perhaps he wasn't really sure. In the grey light this morning, yesterday's weather, no snow, no rain, not a shred of the actual in that fellow's forecast. Being a weatherman cannot be any better than being a used car salesman. They're both trying to sell us snake oil, and we're not buying. At least I'm not buying, not today.
There is some dampness. The pond is open again: there are ripples all across its surface. There is a hint of fog in town, a brisk wind from west to east. Some blue sky here and there above us.
North of the village, where the field of alfalfa had been, there is black dirt showing. The alfalfa has been turned under. To the north, the northwest, perhaps rain. There's a kind of thickness there that suggests heaviness of sky, of water, of spirit.
I hear on the radio that a boy told a fellow he wanted to be a fireman when he grew up. "Sorry, kid," the fireman responded in his New Yawk accent, "you can't do both."
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