Fifty-eight degrees this morning, and not yet seventy degrees in mid-afternoon.
The air is crystal clear as far as I can see, across the river to the far north horizon. There is a blue-white wall of cloud out there, towards a distant state line. Some have a terror of “unseasonable” weather, but I take what I can get. Every day’s weather is its own.
Winter is already on my mind. Insulation, basement damp, storm windows, the fireplace: all of these things march around my mind like so many workaday ants ignoring the grasshoppers. How low can the space heaters be set? How low the flame on the hearth?
I think about putting bricks under the flames and then under the children’s feet at night, wrapped in cloths. We live in a time of wonders so I shouldn’t have to think about these things, but I don’t mind. Sweep the floor, bank the fire, wash the dishes, hang the laundry, read to the children. Round and round the ants go. How much less water can I use? How much less electricity? How much room can I open up in the house?
This afternoon? Maybe the park. A grasshopper moment in a line of ants.
