For the first two-and-a-half days of the holiday weekend we had off-and-on rain and 70-degree temperatures; Ondine and I got caught a few times but it wasn't bad; it was the kind of rain people mean when say they like to walk in it. Cargo shorts, a t-shirt and a sunhat on Thanksgiving.
Until early this afternoon, when the cold front blew in. Cú and I were halfway through a two-mile walk that started under an overcast sky, silent and close and humid and still, when we heard a hissing noise and saw leaves falling from the trees ahead. We ducked under a red oak as a squall blew in and right back out again; the rain lasted no more than 30 seconds, but when we came out the other side the temperature had dropped ten degrees. We hurried home but had time to notice that the passing of the front had lined the streets and sidewalks in new layers of color, reds and golds and greens, like a royal rug marking the path from autumn to winter.
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