A stretch of river XXII: 37

It is just after 8:00 in the morning, and the local-news guy just announced that the temperature is 37 degrees. Being that we're here by the Little Arkansas River, it may be a bit warmer in my little neighborhood, but it's nevertheless true today.

It is no longer "cool" or even "chilly." To this transplanted Texan's mind, it is "cold" this morning.

I was musing on this--the quality of cold--during my morning walk with Scruffy today. For a couple of weeks now, I've been wearing a light jacket on the morning walk, but before now I'd been able to be comfortable with just a T-shirt on underneath that jacket. This morning, though, I decided it was flannel-shirt time. Good call.

The cool and even chilly mornings had left my cheeks tingling a bit. A pleasant chill, not something to be hurried through but relished, lingered in, especially after all the muggy mornings of the summer. On these recent mornings, I'd ask myself, "Is THIS a winter cold, or is it merely a chilly-fall-morning cold?" This morning, though, the hand holding Scruffy's leash felt as though I'd left it in the freezer for a long time: an achy cold that seemed to seep into my bones, making me wish I'd worn gloves.

Now: I confess to having poor circulation in my hands and feet, so my fellow Wichitans' mileage may vary here. And to my mind, the fact that the sycamore and walnut trees still have most of their leaves makes me think that it's still too early for a harbinger-of-winter cold like this. But here it is, here and now. And more, and deeper, cold is to come.

Tangent: Tonight's forecast calls for, and I quote, "scattered frost at midnight."