Woke up to rain, of course, but the clouds will begin to clear today. After a chilly wet week, temperatures are supposed to rise, the sun is supposed to come out, and by Sunday (when I have to spend the entire afternoon on zoom, of course) the weather will be glorious.

Still, there will be no laundry on the line today. Everything outside is completely sopped--lively and growing, spongy and dripping. No towel would dream of drying out in this weather. But I got my housework done yesterday, and a fair amount of desk work, so if Helios should venture into town this afternoon, I'm prepared to fling myself into his arms.

Last night I went out to the salon and for some reason kept writing drafts about clothes: a memoir of childhood play clothes, a diatribe about a mean dress. The play-clothes blurt might be worth messing around with, and maybe I'll do that today, along with talking to Teresa about Donne, and cranking out a few more pages of editing, and making a mango pie. (I've discovered that those small yellow mangos work as a straight substitute for peaches in recipes, and they also happen to be on sale.)

I do wonder why my brain was so fixated on clothes.

Already the clouds seem to be breaking up. Watery sunlight filters through a drenched sky. A cardinal belts out Pew, pew, pew in a local maple. The neighborhood air smells like toast.

I am thinking about a thousand things, and it is spring.