But the Bed is Toasty

Twenty hours of drizzle have failed to create a proper stream anywhere. There is dripping to be heard, but no trickling. I prefer a livelier storm, and if there is to be only dripping then I would like it to emerge from the gray of dense fog. Yesterday morning it seemed cold enough to snow, but the storm has warmed the night air and now I barely shiver when going out to fetch the morning paper. The sky appears quite low. This might bring the fog I've wanted. I'm almost sorry I'm going to miss the day by sleeping through it. Almost.

Bits of Day

When the storm begins to break up, the mulberry tree, its leaves now being fewer and, autumn yellow, lighter in color than they were through the hot season, becomes an amplifier of the sunlight which bursts from cloud rents and splashes the landscape. All the colors of late afternoon become vivid, and the yellow of the mulberry in particular, being directly outside my window, pulls my attention from from the ordinary tasks of the day and draws me outdoors. All the strewn leaves covering the lawn are wet and they glitter as a light breeze sirs them. Wisps of steam rise from the dark pavement, suddenly warmed. Even as patches of bright blue sky appear, the sound of dripping water continues to drum from the sodden pines. Despite the brightness, the air is chilly and is scented with wood smoke. The clouds continue to thin and spread as evening falls, and the moon appears among them. This partial clearing must be local, as there is no bright sunset, the steely gray of the western horizon merely darkening until it is swallowed in night. The sound of dripping diminishes and, as stars emerge, the night air becomes as icy as the silence which soon falls. Time to go back indoors.