Air temperature 35 F, wind near calm, scattered clouds. Black ice reported from the hinterlands, due to yesterday's rain. Should be long gone by the time we sally forth to raid our supermarket.
The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it. Nor will I: ever write a word that fades in light, this I must be certain; else lay desolate at bight.
Walked by that ancient and forlorn Triumph Spitfire on my afternoon outing, and its hood was up with a guy poking around under it. Then he reached inside the cockpit and cranked the starter, and it fired! Ragged at first, but I think all cylinders were firing by the time I got out of earshot. Maybe he'll move it into winter storage now?