Friday night.
Actually, Saturday morning.
Thirty degrees outside. Shredded clouds tease the eye with glimpses of crystal stars - odd for being in the middle of a town.
Nestled in the window seat. Fresh, cool air flows in through an inch-wide opening, traffic sounds, the occasional voice from below, raised in celebration of a Friday night.
Actually, Saturday morning.
A mug of green tea marks the end of an eventful and routine day. I had interesting lessons to teach to interesting people - and no one came to my workshop on Parental Controls. Shared a pizza with a friend, obliged by her dog to scratch his muzzle while trying to watch Keith and Rachel.
I see people walking by on the sidewalk across the street, collars pulled up against the wind that blows between the buildings. I smell snow in the air but the weather forecast calls for continued clear skies.
There should be more snow on the ground, we should feel more immediate drama from Nature at this time of year. One week of clear weather doesn't make a climate - but it does seem odd to have it be so enjoyable - well, relatively so, anyway.
During the day I am high enough to watch seagulls fly by below me - I watch them from an overhead viewpoint, soaring between these buildings. Fascinating.
I do not plan on dreams - but perhaps tonight they will come. Perhaps this is one now.
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