They expected the quayside to flood last night, though the wind has been still for a day now. I guess the sea has lifted itself to move out of the way of the weather somewhere else.
On yesterday’s run the path was strewn with branches, but the ground was dry. There’s been no snow so far this year. E. says that it’s not unusual, but it feels off: this raw cold – a rip in the familiar.
A guy jogged by in shorts. If I’d have taken a picture, it would have been impossible to know the time of year. The honeysuckle in the neighbor’s driveway has small knots of new growth.
There are people who can read the world. But too often I can find myself unexpectedly knee-deep it, and still having lost the through-line of the story. Indications of something I know well, so out of place. Car keys in the refrigerator, and a sharp – but shapeless – fear.
Every sign is a false prophet.
I lay the calendar over the days like a transparency: a slick guide with straight lines. Another anachronism.