This morning, cloudless. The rosy-fingered dawn gilding the balconies of my across-the-street neighbors, etc. Now: mid-afternoon, thick cumuli building up straight overhead. I am not used to the weather here at the foot of the Flatirons in the Front Range.
The air is too thin, for one thing, and very dry, and I love it. The thinness makes me feel sleepy, but the dryness energizes me.
Plutarch’s Lives sits next to me, unread.
My husband will be here less than twenty-four hours from now.
white pebble 