Inbetween Times

The sky is stuck somewhere between a dense fog advisory and a pale showing of the sun that nearly casts shadows in the late afternoon. Sounds of wet come from the tires on the streets, winter boots in puddles, and the drips from the down spouts. The winter's wear is bearing its face. Our fence is crooked and the door won't close. Wrappers and newspapers are glued in cold wet to the muddied grass along our sidewalk. Tiny rocks from our shingles are peppered all over the deck as the snow slowly creeps away from its edge but insists on a small iced pile in the middle. A friend from just a 100 miles south posted that they were going to the park -- in t-shirts. We are still layered, even fleeced, and the parks are a soggy pit of ground up tires (the covering of choice in Madison). Just a few days ago I wrote of the emerging that we are living in, but this week we've taken a different turn to a place that isn't sure what it is, only that it can't stay this way for long. Or at least we have hope that it won't.