things move around

I was wrong about Spokane, and my sneering dog-for-sale jibe of yesterday was unfair. The wind slowed to a benign breeze yesterday afternoon, and when I got back to my hotel I stood on my shallow balcony on the second floor and looked out over the eponymous river, sliding by brimful with snowmelt and the recent rain. With its treelined banks and surface eddies glimmering in the evening light, it reminded me of the Severn in the town where I grew up. The tokenistic tower blocks of downtown were out of sight behind me; the only sound was the intermittent whooshing of a freeway where it bridged the river a block away. It was 11 or 12 degrees C, and the air felt pleasant on my skin. The nimbostratus of the morning had given way to scattered white cumulus, which glowed pink with the late lingering tendrils of the sun in what to an optimist would be a sure sign of spring.