+ R

There was patchy fog much of the night. I suspect that the valley may have been dense with it, and what we got here was the mere edge which had managed to creep up the mountain in the chilly hours. Here, it stayed near the ground, fully concealing nothing, only lending the darkness a gauzy vagueness, and softening the outlines of the trees. I delightedly inhaled its scent of grassy wetlands and the hint of the pine woods through which it had passed.

The evening had also brought the return of the frog chorus, which continued to sing until a short time ago. The iciness is gone from the slow air, though it has not yet grown truly mild. The frogs will be pleased that another (and hopefully warmer) rain is on the way, expected before the weekend. Should the spring prove to be a damp one, this will be an excellent year for the frogs.

So I've had fog and frogs, and the coming evening may be sufficiently temperate to induce the cricket to begin singing once more. I might even be able to open the windows wide again this afternoon. The inevitable onset of spring pleases me, as always. I'm eager to sleep in greater comfort, less weighted down by blankets, and to be freed of the need to keep a jacket handy when I go outdoors by night. The sneezing induced by pollen will be little to pay for my liberation from the tyrannical weight of fabrics.

Move Along; Nothing to See Here

Though it's warmer tonight, and the frogs are croaking, I haven't heard the cricket. I hope it didn't freeze to death.

I was sure I had something else to say, but my mind's gone blank. It's the first stage of Alzheimer's, I'm sure. I'll be demented within a week.