Another cool morning in Paradox

74 degrees, light mist. That's what the Culebra weather station says right now. There is no mist in my neighborhood, but that's fine, mist is too teasy anyway. What I want to know is, rhetorically speaking, is it winter again? The one we had for three days this year? This crisp air, dry and sharp, is making CWIM way too frisky; jumping around like water spattering on a searing hot skillet. A gusty wind is up, bringing a bit of wild to daybreak. The man who rides his horse by here almost every morning is passing now, whistling a jaunty tune. He must be feeling it as well...maybe I should send CWIM with him.

There is a gumbo limbo tree in the yard that acts like its own ecosystem, ignoring its fellow flora and acting as if living far north of our latitude. It sheds leaves in the fall rather than in spring, like its mates. In spring, it behaves as a proper tree should, with new leaves appearing among the buds.

As I walked down the yard I could hear bees humming from five feet away, industriously gathering nectar, doing the bee dances in choreographed herks and jerks that somehow seem fluid anyway.

I have so many things to do and none of them seem urgent. Before I even woke up, my dream was about burrowing under covers and that feels like what I want. I know as the day grows, this weather will all seem impossible: heat will rise to take dominion, humidity will leach from airy nothingness into its almost tangible self. But that will be then. This is now. And the covers look good.