It is a soft, slightly gloomy day out, and no one around here revels in that but me. The morning drizzle has left a few puddles and a cloudy sky behind. All is rather grey, but a gentle breeze blows on the melting snows, much warmer than the winds of weeks past. Walking around outside, I caught a scent of something sweet like pipe smoke. Some ice still lingers, but stepping on it splinters and crushes it into slush.
This is some of my favorite weather, I think; it is above all calm and quiet. No beams of sunlight stab the eyes or glare off virgin snow. It’s not quite warm enough or green enough to register as spring, and so it most resembles October: the month of gallivanting through the woods or by lakes and streams.
Thus there is a northernness about it: a lie, because I am no further north than I was yesterday, but a claim made by right; the rain has reminded the streets and trees and air of the world beyond these buildings and this town, and issued its muted invitation to go forth and explore it.