November 11th, 2019
At Greenwich Avenue and Seventh I glance at the forecast for tomorrow. The high is fifty-five. The low is twenty-seven. There's a ninety percent chance for rain. This evening it's fifty-five. I'm wearing khakis, two sweaters, a light jacket, and a winter hat; the hat's an accessory ––– tonight it's warm. I can't think of the last time I looked, really looked, at the forecast. Is it a prediction or a prayer? This autumn's been mild; last week we dipped beneath thirty-two for the first time. Tomorrow I'm guessing fall will make its official entrance. No more winter hats as accessories; no more gloveless runs along the Hudson. Tomorrow the rain will pour; it may turn into snow. And summer at once feels like yesterday as well as twelve years ago.