"Only a man harrowing clods / In a slow silent walk / With an old horse that stumbles and nods / Half asleep as they stalk"...
that's the exact beat of the rain coming down, I thought, hearing Hardy rattling around the kitchen of my mind--making coffee?--as I woke this morning.
A week of this weather and one regresses, or thinks about regressing, to a more primitive level. It is somehow comforting: the immense effort required, from the pre-dawn fetal position, to get each new day underway, suddenly seems less pressing.
Two metres of snow in the Sierras. The depressing Massachusetts election results.