Forty-six degrees felt cold this morning. I walked Lola down by the lake in shorts and a hooded sweatshirt and alternated hands on the leash to warm the other in my pocket. There was only a little breeze and the sun clear in the sky. It has since traveled across the sky and as I try to think back I am not able to remember more detail.
Our morning ramble, a ritual two-and-a-half years old now, has become muscle memory, a time of waking and thinking ahead to what the day will hold, but rarely introspective or reflective in any way that sticks with me.
As I drove home this evening, there were blue-gray clouds high overhead, vaguely promising rain except that they were identical to the sky yesterday at the same time, which likewise did not produce the precipitation we so badly need.
The traffic opened up and stayed open earlier than it usually does and I leaned against the door, letting the wind through the open window batter me.
Roughened lake surface
Shimmers in bright morning sun
Drive home past gray skies