Clambering

The air has a chill in it that creeps into your bones. The light from the sky is a homogeneous gray. The leafless trees up and down the street are motionless, although the green leaves of the Monterey Oak rustle a bit, and the songs of some birds a half block away hint at spring.

Down the street, on the way back home, we saw the blooms of a flowering quince -- pinkish, reddish flowers on leafless gray branches. The blossoms, like the birds a half block from here, suggested that something besides this chill and drear is on the way. But the sky was not so hopeful.

And so sitting here, looking out the window, with a fog come over my mind, I feel like the Writing Man clambering out of his pit of sloth. Except that I'm about to clamber into mine.

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