It's the first Monday in March and I'm in my office, trying to find 500 words before 8:00 a.m. Tuesday. I'm sitting in a beat up old wooden chair, working on a desk made of scrap iron and a chunk of marble countertop my brother-in-law gave me when he cleaned out his basement. There are buds on the trees, but nothing green out my window, just unseasonably open water, brown grass and black mud.
On that subject, I suspect my soul may be unsettled for quite some time. I hope to be wrong.
Quite on point for today.