The snow failed to secure its turf. The rain rinsed the lead-green hills and the buckskin grasses. Winter in the steppes banana belt is an intermittent thing.
I’ve caught its intermittency. I was dusting but my med alarm went off, and I gulped my two white things and one orange thing, which were in my purse, which was next to my lap-friendly computer, so I checked my email, and there was a bill, so I paid all the bills, and then wrote Heidi back to tell her I liked a poem she composed so well that I’d like to have coffee with it. But first I’ll finish at least the dusting, just to regain a sense of linear sequence to the day.
But just now, which is now just then, a long, white, thin-and-puffy cloud mass is advancing across the hills. I think it is coagulated mist from the river. So I snapped a picture of it through the window; otherwise I would have had the distractions of going outside, possibly locking myself out, as I have done before, etc. The picture I took showed the cloud as a narrow tube, but I forgot to save that one, so I took another a few minutes later, when the cloud was puffier and more ready to ally its awesome vaporous force with a formidable cloud front. I liked the other picture better, but it is tucked away in my great empty file of belayed aspirations. One of which is not going to be the dusting. . .
But dust is very good at waiting.