We're entering a long stretch of drizzle and fog, with no sun forecast till next Wednesday. I was planning to spend the afternoon in the archive, but maybe I should plant instead. It's hard to tell how easy it will be to work outside this weekend.
For now, no rain, but the air is weighted with wet, and swales of fog drape the roofs and steeples. Island weather.
I'm feeling slightly out of sorts, both restless and tired. I haven't yet shaken that cold, or else it's morphing into allergies. In any case, my skull feels kind of like how the sky looks.
But the tulips are budding. White crocuses gleam against black soil. Dogs pause on their walks, lifting their muzzles to breathe in the rich stink of spring.
Today I'll be teaching an Elizabeth Bishop poem, editing a few footnotes, maybe beginning to mull comments on a Euripides translation. I'll look up from my desk and down into my muddy backyard-- at my three hopeful pots of pansies, at the fat woodchuck grazing on last fall's maple seeds, and then beyond, into a clutter of other yards, cars, roofs, porches, and beyond again, to the freight train growling and rumbling north. Sometimes it is hard, still, to remember I need to live here.