Complaints

Sometimes, using the Internet is as fast, easy and productive as swimming through an ocean of tar, looking for a licorice whip. No wonder Sluggo is so reluctant to use it!

Outside is nicer. Fog and mist have hung about most of the night. The wind has stilled, and there is only the ever-slower dripping from the trees to break the silence. I like the fogs, but I'm beginning to miss the moon.

I've decided that today will be nice. I'm giving it no choice.

Fresh

The unbroken gray ceiling has withdrawn, replace by graceful white cirrus clouds brushed across sunlit blue sky. The pavement retains a few patches of damp, and the strews of pine needles accumulated at the road verge are golden brown, and spongy with water. Wherever the saturated bare earth is exposed, it is still as dark as chocolate. Another day of sunlight will return it to its accustomed paleness. The birds have taken much delight from the absence of rain, and the afternoon has been filled with their chirps and squawks as they have pecked morsels from the lawn. My close room has been freshened, the windows opened to admit both cool air and the pungent scent of decaying, wet leaves. At the moment, the clouds to the west are beginning to flush the with pink and lavender of sunset. If the clarity remains, then very early morning will bring me a view of the thin, waning crescent moon as it rises. Everything is refreshed by the storm, and by its end. Time to go out and watch the night fall, and see stars.