Weather Change

Hard to believe but seventy degrees tonight and forty tomorrow with snow tomorrow night. The ground will be too warm for anything to stick. I thought about going to town, but I didn't need anything, so I took a small walk, through leaves that I swear were six inches deep, then read an O'Brian novel and thought about rigging. I'm agog at the number of ropes it takes to run a sailing vessel, and everything has a name. Nothing actually threatens me but the chance stumbles. Read an O'Brian all night, sleet in the morning, slept, and the temperature started dropping, the low last night was higher than the high today, a few flakes of snow. A few puffed birds peck at the sumac, the wind scatters brown leaves. That first taste of isolation. A wee dram of single-malt. The crows come to visit and I take them a mouse. I have to make a pate, to use some remaindered mushrooms and chicken livers I'd picked up, knowing that small game season was open and somebody would leave a rabbit in my mailbox. Most of the day making a mess in the kitchen. The wind is up all day 25 or 30 mph and the leaves rattle against the house. I turned on the radio, then turned that off and put on the Cello Suites, then turned them off and just listened to the wind. Excellent country pate, a forcemeat by any other name, and I'm glad I ventured to make it as it gets darker in the afternoon and I settle in with a history of the fork. Another history of the fork. Grazing at the island on sweet crisp pickles, pate on saltines, and feta, reading about forks. Called Glenn, to thank him for the books, and we talked about the medial caesura. He thought I should consider the form, considering my inclination toward alliteration. By the time I finish the second O'Brian, the night is nearly gone with temps down in the twenties. A few hours sleep and I had to get up to attend the fire. Put on the thick sweater from JC, bathrobe, watch hat and fingerless gloves. As soon as there's light I go out for an armload of wood, and the frost is so thick it's a bit tricky. I need to move the wash water inside, it's already iced-over, so I'll need to turn on the small electric heater I keep in the entry-way to break the thermal shock of frozen water and opening the door. Winter is when the back door is frozen in its jamb. My reading nest is secure, a fleece-lined alcove with a stadium blanket for my bony knees.