Distracted

Our nights here in Los Angeles have transcended, become crisp yet heavy and chilled; a cold soup, like air which hovers over a cool pond; my dog’s wet nose. Somewhere in the serene and wild desert of Arizona the temperatures might be falling to ninety-something. And there, across the great Midwest, the Indian summer is waning and wilting in Chicago; and in New York City the winds might be sweeping Manhattan and all of the people of Manhattan, like tiny flustered ants, might be clutching their pumpkin lattes in a panic.

Tonight, I’ll need a jacket. And tomorrow I’ll require an umbrella. The first storm of the fall is due to Los Angeles and it is in that rain that I’ll be slushing about; and it is indoors, warm and dry, that I’ll feel safe and content while the water splashes and pouts at the window.

It’s Friday. It’s been a strange day. I’m ready for the weekend.