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Delay [Mar. 13th, 2016|08:31 pm]
Persistently sloppy weather prevented me from doing the weekly shopping today, and it has been put off until tomorrow. There were a couple of rainless hours, but fog settled in and reduced visibility to about three hundred feet, where the dark ghosts of trees lurked in the gray air. Oddly, wind kept blowing the entire time the fog was here, and only when the rain returned did it diminish. Now a blustery night has begun, and the wind is picking up again. Cold raindrops are blowing across the back porch so that light spilling from the house glimmers in its slick concrete surface. It's pretty, but no substitute for moonlight.

The rain is expected to continue through tomorrow morning, but it should be gone by afternoon, when I'll go to the stores. I'm hoping the Internet will speed up once the rain ends. A neighbor put in a report to AT&T the other day, and the linemen were out Saturday afternoon and did some more work. My Internet has been continuous since then, but very, very slow. The highest download speed I've seen since then is 15 KB/s. It's like being back on dial-up. The guy sprayed a sealant on my line where it had been chewed by squirrels and was leaking, but I think he might have sealed some of the dampness inside the line. Maybe it will dry out once the sun emerges. If not I'll have to wait until they replace the line, and I don't know when that will be, but it is in the works— finally.

I heard the frogs croaking faintly while it was foggy and rainless this afternoon, but once the rain returned it drowned their song out. All I can hear when I go outside now is the rainfall and the wind in the trees. It's probably going to be like that all night. Happy Daylight Saving Time.

Sunday Verse

The More Modest the Definition of Heaven, the Oftener We're There

by Albert Goldbarth

Years later they let him go. New evidence
—somebody's shoe and a letter, and then
another man confessed. So along with the cheap gray suit
and job ads that they all receive, he
had a brief note of apology. I suppose some people
go wild or bitter. But this is what happened to him:
we're sitting up way past midnight in August,
the six of us, hoping for a breeze. The air
might move in a solid block, as if pushed
by a streetsweeper's broom, but you couldn't call it
a breeze. Hot isn't the word. The stars
only make the sky a sore throat. And one of us,
Sally maybe, says we must be dead because
it's hell for sure, and the rest of us laugh, but
he's been called far out of our bent little circle,
you can tell by his eyes, they're filled with the moon,
with the simple delight of seeing the moon touch all of us
all over without a bar in the way,
without the shadow of even one bar
to fall on the light like a nightstick.