This morning the sky is white.  Everything else looks gray: the roofs of the houses, the branches above them, the small birds and the big birds and the birds in between.  Today it will rain.  Tomorrow it will snow. How many grays will that be?

 March.  

There is a staleness in the air, like sawdust on a market floor.  It feels like walking in mudflats.  The weight of the year, the dishes in the sink, the unopened mail on the kitchen table.  

This morning I ate leftover mac and cheese with green hot sauce.  I am not sorry.

 Friday morning.  The heat is hissing behind me. 

Yesterday I heard a mourning dove. This morning nothing.