Frost. Pasadena.
For yesterday's dog walk, John wore a woolen scarf around his neck. He also wore shorts, but still, something's not right.
These old houses--okay, this old house--is porous. I've never been crazy about dusting (warn me if you're coming over) but the cool breeze floating in around the window frames is even more disconcerting than the particles it brings with it.
Our heater works, so we'll have ourselves some winter and I'll cozy up indoors at the window. The skies are inordinately clear. The mountains rise, sharply, to meet the blue. The clouds are so towering as to inspire religion.
But doesn't it seem unusually cold for Pasadena?
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