The last 24 hours have seen the ruination of winter.
Had an isobar moved 50 miles toward the shore the rain pounding down outside would have passed through an arctic cold front and piled up as snow.
But it’s coming down as water, the air is in the forties and fog is drifting across the streets. Large drops are dissolving snowbanks that used to tower up to second-story windows.
My standards of meteorological neatness are quite high - if we can’t have lovely banks of puffy (easy to shovel) snow surrounding us then it’s just as well to have done with it.
Raindrops strike the brick sidewalk outside the glass doors beside my seat. The intensity waxes and wanes, cells are moving by above the city, the tap runs from closed to open and then back to closed.
I’m working on a new tango. It’s at a stage where I can take a step back to see how it feels as a unit. Having a foggy, rainy, slightly clammy night to stalk through helps clear my mind.
A beer and the excellent sauteéd Brussels sprouts make a difference too.
I suppose I’m ready for the season to change. Time to shed a layer of skin (going to the gym will help that too) and see what patterns I’m showing this year.
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