Windy and cooler, with fat, fast-moving clouds. A fox appears on the back wall and gazes with seeming wistfulness at our breakfast.
A dampness on the ground and in the air. The sky is, as always, unreadable to me with my lifetime of experience reading continental skies.
Off on my honeymoon to Eigg. Back on June 4.
A blue wound opens in the clouds and heals over again. In the garden, pink claws that may become peonies if a late frost doesn’t kill them.
Egg-white sky with one sun over medium. It’s cold. I’m reading a line about roosters crowing just as the neighbor’s rooster begins to crow.
An ashen sky, gravid with snow. The field sparrow’s back: that song that sounds like rising excitement (or alarm, depending on one’s mood).
Faint traces of high cloud give a seaside sort of light. I dreamed the wood frogs were calling, but it’s still too cold.
A raven croaks and I see the sun moving backwards—just a sun-sized pit in the clouds glowing as it passes the location of the actual sun.