PAUL CHRISTENSEN

The day is as gray as raw silk, and hangs from the sky as if someone were in a hurry to get the curtains hung. The absence of any shadows means we are not quite observant enough, that we might be losing some fragments of memory we will never get back. The sky has no clouds, the sun is loafing behind an invisible mountain and will not be disturbed. I move around in a living room with my crossword puzzle, but I can't bring myself to sit down again. My late father's grandfather

Rainy and cold today. About forty degrees, with the gutters mumbling as rain lands against the roof and shatters. The flowers are blooming, some of them already wilting a little on their slender necks. The maples are leafing out, with little collars of green fur at all the branch ends, like girls preening in their new long-sleeved dresses before the dance recital. I sit here in my winter sweater, gazing out of the study windows, the rain clinging in blisters to each pane. Suc