Squall

Around 4 pm the sky darkened. A bank of clouds raced in from the north and east, hanging over the bay with that peculiar look of a storm, hanging down in frills and shards. As the wind changed directions, from south to north, and picked up speed, the foghorn started to sound. The clouds quickly overtook the shore and the temperature dropped and the precipitation fell, lightly at first, then heavily and thickly. Twenty minutes later the clouds passed and the sun came out. The day had completely changed.

Fantasy helps in March in the north. For I deliberately thought of yesterday's snow as rain, of the horn announcing fog instead of dark, of the north wind bringing cool relief, not more zero-degree readings overnight, of this March squall if it were really a August summer fling, of urges and longings as if they were right around the corner.