It is raining in Indiana, the kind of dull, disconsolate rain that weeps at a slow and seemingly endless rate. No soothing white-noise waterfall, no spritzing, just the sky sobbing quietly.
What it's got to be sad about, I don't know; perhaps, this being February, it had hoped to be snow -- several feet of snow, the kind of snowfall people talk about for years afterward. "Where were you during the blizzard of '17?" Robbed of fame (or at least infamy), the sky weeps instead.
The weeds and flowers are delighted; I've got ditch-lilies breaking through around the house and garage in little clusters like crowds of tourists. They don't know from the calendar; it feels like growing time and they grow. A similar effect can be seen with the squirrels, leaping and chasing and generally raising six kinds of squirrel trouble. We're liable to have a bumper crop of tree-rodents this year.
What March will be like, I can only wonder. Winter may have a trick or two left even yet -- but for today, it's rain now and possibly storms later.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago