Saturday Morning

No heat yet, so I read in bed. And I read. a luxury, waiting for the pounding of the pipes, the hiss of steam from the radiators. The heat. All winter, it has been too hot; this day, it has yet to come. I await the sounds, expectantly. It is usually too hot.

Finches cheep in little flocks of five or eight or twelve. A squirrel rats itself up the branches, over bare winter wood. It pauses to scratch a flea vigorously. The sun is out, but it is wan, not warm. The girls are sleeping in and I do not awaken them. They were up very, very late, although I'll hear about not getting her up earlier from Sophie. Her friend Katie prefers to sleep late on non-school days. Where did Sophie get her not wanting to lose the day asleep in bed ethic? It is so admirable! I wait. There's still no heat. You can see your breath in the air. Something must be wrong!

There is a new sound. The Accela train leaves the Providence station on the northbound track, bound for Boston and the end of the line. It is a modern whistle on an old form of transportation. Did the train originate in Washington or New York perhaps, to be here at this time. There's still no heat. It is time to make a move.