Morning slides open grey and slow; I smile to the sky, but I am not without reservation. I've had my dry heart broken too many times these past few weeks by clouds that hover and later clear. As I walk to class, it smells like rain coming, but I close my senses against the hope. Ah, but miracles come from above: I leave class to a soft sprinkle, which becomes a drizzle as I walk to the library. It slows to nothing as I write this, but the wind is rising and I have promises from the coast.


The geraniums on the library windowsill are straining to the pale light, improbably bright splashes of green and pink against a world reduced to winter grey and muted gold. And life goes on.