Late this afternoon we made it up to 73 degrees, and for a brief moment I realized that I had nothing against Kindness–though I believe I do have something against Days marked off specially, For anything, regardless of how noble or right.

In the dry land of iconoclasm and heresy, no single day unto itself deserves to be called holy.

Each is only a day more or less, sufficient (or not) unto itself.

From sunset to sunrise, it will plunge, is plunging at the time of this writing, by 35 degrees into a chill dawn, and there will be no more sign of temperatures above 70 for months to come.

Past tomorrow in fact there is nothing in the long-range forecast above even 60. But by noon the winter wind arrives in gale force, for six short hours, just enough to blow in a cold mass of air that will feel, for a time, permanent.

My being shifts in tune with the tilting of heavenly bodies and branches unclothed, even naked.

I listen to them rattle against each other in the breeze. They intone thus:

“10 percent of the people own 88 percent of all the stocks.”

I nod. I murmur. Yes. I very much want those ten percent to consider celebrating Kindness Day, even though I know in my heart and very bones that they would only laugh, at the absurdity of the notion.

I grow serious and on a moonless evening some weeks from now

I may yet still find myself sober.