Listen.

ooh wooooh airs piping past the window slid barely open just so. Gray weather is here, and damp, and chill. No notice of it until the little winds sing. Then memories of just such soft little breezeflutes and gray days from childhood flood the mind and bodysense, feelings from Iowa farm weathers just before storms, trees tossing and big white farmhouse humming and lilting in every little crack and draft.

And the strange remembered happinesses blossoming in the breast.

Ravens out there, too, just now. Near enough to hear their three-caw calls. Except it's not really a caw with ravens, is it? What English onomatopoeia best describes it? There's a slight ringing quality, a higher pitch. And a sort of excitement, an exclamation point built in. The tone of crow caws seems wearier and downwardturning.

Husband emerges from his downstairs lair. Good morning I love you I greet over the wall. Coffee water hisses now in its electric kettle. Crinkle of the stiff plastic bag around Husband's hand as he scoops the new grounds out.

Brief break in cloudcover brings in the skylight beam right on time, falls on my keyboardhands now, not my face anymore, as the arc moves north.

7Feb2012 fullmoon edition: gray day = chilly worktime in the writingshed. Bit drafty, no sunrays to cook the place up. Barnheater churns away.

The water froze again in my drinking cup here overnight.

I have conceived a form for the Thing I Wrote, so I suppose I should go inside and up to the officebed computer and make that happen. I want to print and submit it this week. And start on the next Thing.

Best get on with it, then.