Twisted

More flowers are blooming, and the rain has been canceled. This is more like a dry and chilly spring that it is like winter. It might as well be March— except in March the sun wouldn't be going down so soon. Early this morning there were still some shredded bits of cloud in the sky, and the moon was floating among them as it settled behind a screen of bare oak twigs across the street. It looked so promising.

Today there's nothing but a gray haze not quite thick enough to be called an overcast, and wreaths of smoke curling above chimneys. It's a scene of insufficient bleakness. It's like being served a bad meal that's too small to satisfy your hunger, so you wish there were more of it even though it's bad. This January has turned me into Oliver Twist.